


leder burning (part two)

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [87]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Illustrated, M/M, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Original Character Death(s), Riots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child is dead and there was nothing Dirk Strider could do about it. Now he has to live with the consequences as state and society both collapse around him, with his friends and family caught in the crossfire of a revolution.</p>
<p>Takes place immediately after 'leder burning (part one)'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the news cycles

**== >Past Dirk: Experience the madness first hand **

You’re petrified. Despite seeing so much death up close—and often having a hand in said death— _this_ is the thing that jolts you to the core. You can’t speak as MP swarm the area, sectioning off the trolls and pushing back those who would challenge them. Gunfire and blood fill the air, followed by a chorus of wretched weeping.

A mother holds her dead child, sobbing, and it doesn’t matter her species or blood color. A child is dead and you did nothing.

Eric’s officers act before he does. A metal baton cracks against the mother’s face, beating the woman back. The leaves shake from the emerald copse as more blood is spilled. The trolls don’t back away. They retaliate with rocks, sticks, and stones: all that nature can give them in the clearing.

James sits on the grass crying, forgotten during the madness. Only Ms. Hutchinson seems to remember the boy, grabbing him before the MP disperse the tear gas. As noxious clouds roll out, your instincts seize you. You flee with the crowd, covering your mouth and foregoing your MP connections in lieu of survival. You join the stampede of people shoving aside everything in their path. Stalls topple, an elderly woman is trampled, and several children are abandoned.

Your lungs and eyes burn. Your sense of direction and drive for survival is the only thing steering you. You only caught a whiff of tear gas but others fared worse.

The trolleys are crowded with people fleeing. Two of them refuse to move, with the conductor AI insisting that its overburdened and can’t safely move. You run in a fog of tears and pain. Two miles into your journey, you find a less crowded trolley to take you the rest of the way. Even you don’t trust yourself in this state.

 

When you get home, the bakery entrance is locked. You’re in too much agony to navigate to the back door, so you bang on it. Eventually it opens and a blurry shape—Johnny, you think—opens the door.

“Holy hells!” Johnny takes you inside, “Jane! Tear gas!”

“Bring him to the kitchen!” Jane calls.

Johnny guides you to the kitchen as tears run down your face. “C’mon, Dirk. This way. You ain’t the first fella to been gassed in Brewer Basin.”

Like any Brewer Basin housewife, Jane is prepared for every emergency. She douses your eyes in cold milk and you hiss and curse through the pain. It feels like sandpaper is scraping your eyeballs but Jane holds you still.

Panicked footsteps enter the room. “Oh my gods! _Dirk_!” Roxy gasps.

“Tear gas. He’ll live.” Jane strokes the top of your head, soothing you. “It’s alright...the pain will fade.”

“What’s going on?” Roxy asks, “One minute I’m rolling cigars and the next thing MP storm in and shut everything down. I tried to take the trolley home but it was _crammed_ with people.”

“Johnny, get the radio.” says Mr. Crocker, “If it’s big news, they’ll interrupt the broadcast.”

You’re in too much pain to coherently tell them what happened. Johnny leaves and returns with the Crocker’s bulky radio. You sit in the kitchen with a wet cloth pressed to your burning eyes. As Johnny fiddles with the radio, Jane sits next to you.

“Have you ever been gassed before?” Jane asks.

You nod slowly. “Y-yes, but this...this hurts...”

Jane has her warm hands on your face. “It’s never just the gas. It’s always the terror.”

You don’t know what you say next; darkness overtakes you and when you wake up, you’re back in your apartment lying on your bed. There’s no sound of Shongolian pop or illegal Canzian jazz. The tenement is silent...but outside you hear a loud siren.

“A storm?” you croak.

“Curfew.” Roxy says. You turn and the woman stands in the doorway.

It makes sense that the MP would do that. “For how long?”

“Question marks.” Roxy sits on the opposite side of the bed. “You were there, weren’t you? When Eric Solomon..they’re saying he...”

“Yes.” You whisper.

You can’t bring yourself to say it. Your eyes are still inflamed and your heart feels like it’s been torn from your chest. Roxy touches your shoulder and then leaves, as if your silence has banished her.

 

The siren stops wailing the first night but the curfew remains. The Trollslum miners are at the greatest disadvantage as they make their living by harvesting emeralds and rubies from the bowels of the earth late into the night. On the second day, you remain in the apartment, having an on-off relationship with the radio, but it offers little information.

You’re too used to Canzian news having detailed scandal coverage. For Leder, there’s barely a murmur about the atrocity. The conversation that does happen concerns Eric being placed under house arrest until the MP tribunal reaches a conclusion.

“It’s the most obvious solution,” says one pundit, “An upstanding man like Eric Solomon, who put his body on the line everyday for this city deserves to have a fighting chance, would not have a fighting chance in jail. He would be a target for criminal organizations. Criminal organizations that Ortiza Makara’s parents are part of…”

“…Eric Solomon has taken not one but _three_ bullets for this city and has been advocating for civil rights! This is not the portrait of a man who is a ‘bigot’…”

“…Ortiza Makara was born and raised in Trollslum, and therefore has no history of positive, consistent interaction with humans…”

“Who’s to say Ortiza Makara had good intentions? Children can be malicious and purpleblood children are especially aggressive…”

“Today’s guest is Dr. Martinez, an expert on troll biology and psychology, who says that Eric Solomon’s actions were justified in protecting his son due to the natural aggression of coldblooded trolls in regards to…”

“…a father’s love is fierce and shouldn’t be denied…”

“…his poor frail son…”

Without the visual aid TV provides, it’s easy to think the pundits are a collective regurgitating the same opinions.

On the third day, there is no word from the MP tribunal. On the fourth day, there is still no word. On the fifth day, two journalists are jailed for trying to get a ‘scoop’ on their decision process so far. Your phone is silent because without Eric, the MP have forgotten you.

On the sixth day, curfew is lifted but attitudes remain the same. No one lingers in the street to buy candies or enjoy the sunset over the waterways. Few people stay in the Harlequin Bakery for coffee and conversation; preferring to take their goods and flee back home.

MP patrol the entrance of Trollslum. At all times of the day, there are trolls lined up and facing the fences as they endure pat-downs. The most guilty-looking have bags shoved over their heads and are shoveled into the back of MP vans.

On the seventh day, you return to work. You don’t talk to anyone about what happened and no one asks you. The trolleys are quiet and people seem frightened to speak or even look at MP.

At the end of the eighth day, you go to your apartment and find the doorknob is in a different position than you left it. Roxy is still in the bakery, so you carefully open it.

Standing in the living room is a ceruleanblood in all black with dark shades. It’s the first ceruleanblood you’ve seen in South City that isn’t a near imbecile like the yellowblood store owner.

“We’re pulling out.” the threshecutioner says in Old Alternian.

“Now?” The threshecutioner doesn’t answer and you shut the door. “Everything’s standstill. The festival’s been postponed and the ports are shut down. This country’s locked up tighter than a warmblood harem.”

“There are always ways.”

“I can’t just disappear. Not now.”

“You can’t take her with you. On paper she’s your wife, but we both know the truth.”

“You don’t know me.”

“That doesn’t negate the truth.”

“What are you doing here?” you growl, “Come to shove failure in my face? Did Geneva send you?” Though you stopped receiving messages from Geneva a week ago, but they don’t have to know that.

The threshecutioner is silent, either plotting or embarrassed by your melodrama.

“Tomorrow, the verdict for Eric Solomon will be broadcasted.” they say, “When that happens you should be on the nearest boat heading anywhere but here.”

What would be the point? You’ll return to Canzia in disgrace and be no different from the near penniless man you are now. The threshecutioner, offering no comfort or alternatives, exits the apartment.

You sit on the lumpy couch and don’t bother with sleep. When daylight comes, you go downstairs and watch the Crocker-Egbert family work their craft. Pops Crocker minds the register. Jane stirs batter and Johnny rolls dough into cinnamon buns. The still unmoved radio provides static-filled, state-approved music.

You leave the tenement and stroll outside. There are no trolls in the street, not even beggars, addicts, or whores. You walk to the humble general store owned by the simple-minded yellowblood. It feels as if its been decades since Geneva and you slept there. The yellowblood is boarding up the windows and his rustblood wife is wiping off graffiti on the doorway. The spray paint is vibrant purple: _Justice for Ortiza!!_

“What happened?” you ask.

“Awful buggers went and violated our good shop!” The rustblood says, scratching her skull. She has cranium scars to match her husband’s.

“No idea what they do, but they got a death wish, they do.” adds the yellowblood.

You’d offer them pounds but in this climate the gesture would only be seen as suspicious. You continue on your walk, weaving through the narrow streets to the church. There are candles in the window and the front grocer is bereft of fruit, with a _Closed_ hanging off a stand.

The church is empty but there’s a new decoration on the walls: photographs and drawings of missing and presumed dead trolls and human activists. Father Jimenez lights incense to ward away the swarms of black flies while Feferi and Gamzee replace the fly tape and rattraps. As the children work, you speak with the priest in the back room.

“This whole ordeal has troubled Meenah awfully,” says Father Jimenez, “and now there’s this graffiti.”

“Has it been on your church?”

“Yes. Twice so far.” Jimenez sighs. “I believe this is a sign from above. South City is becoming increasingly inhospitable and I fear for my family’s safety. I think I shall have to become a roadside preacher again. I think Meenah and the children would be happier on the steppe.”

The steppe had its own dangers, from illness and food shortages to the rough wilderness only Shongolians tolerate. It would mean living out of a car and being reliant on the kindness of strangers, but there would be fewer MP.  

“I’m sure you’ll do what’s best.” You say.

“I just wish for Meenah to be happy again.”  Father Jimenez sighs, “Every time people speak of Ortiza, I know she thinks of our son.”

If Gamzee was your son, you would have identical fears.

Still, Father Jimenez’s warm words are what you need to hear. Despite living in a poverty plagued neighborhood, he still has immense love in his heart.

Having nowhere else to go, you return to the canal where you first saw Gamzee. There are no children; only wives visiting the water pumps to wash their laundry. You sit on a bench and ponder the methods for leaving Leder. The easiest approach would be to make your death look like a suicide by fire that got out of hand, but it would take a lot of time to prepare. 

Your QuickMail vibrates. You hope its not Hal. Your last conversation was an argument following his decision to transfer to a university in Raffil. He promised to keep in contact but you are _far_ beyond giving a shit about him.

You flip open the device and the message plummets your heart into your stomach.

 

**E_Solomon: hey**

**E_Solomon: guess whos done with house arrest**

**D_Strider: What.**

**E_Solomon: this guy**

**D_Strider: Eric…I…**

**D_Strider: I don’t know what to say.**

**E_Solomon: dirk it was an accident**

**E_Solomon: things have been so bad since then and**

**E_Solomon: and i miss you dirk**

**D_Strider: Eric. Please.**

**E_Solomon: please i just want to see a friendly face**

**E_Solomon: ive been trapped inside my house and cutoff from my friends**

**E_Solomon: people are sending my family death threats. i think someone tried to poison me & barabara **

**E_Solomon: its just so terrifying. i just want to talk to a friend**

**E_Solomon: please**

**E_Solomon: im begging you**

**D_Strider: I…**

**D_Strider: Alright.**

**E_Solomon: thank you dirk. take the back entrance please.**

 

This is a fucking _terrible_ idea.

The trolley leading to the Upper South Side is empty. The district is crawling with MP, standing at every corner. The only trolls are servants accompanied by carapaces or lizards.

A pair of MP guard the front and back entrance of the Solomon home. The back entrance guards look you over but don’t say anything. The inside of the building is the same but there are more carapace servants than you remember. A carapace manservant leads you upstairs to a room behind a heavy wood-carved door. The room reeks of cigar smoke and everything is decorated for manliness: mounted animal heads on the walls, bearskin rug, heirloom swords and modern firearms on the walls and in display cabinets. The paintings of the Solomon men in highly decorate MP uniforms glower at you from the walls. The furniture is teak, ancient, and smells expensive.

Eric sits in a large armchair, enjoying his brandy, cigars, and TV as it plays a decades old sitcom. When he sees you, he stands. “Dirk! _Finally_!”

While Eric embraces you, a manservant rushes in to take the empty plates and scurries back out, shutting the door behind him. When they leave, Eric whispers in Trussian, _“Diedrich, I missed you so much. I had no one to speak to that could truly understand me.”_

“I’m sure.” You worm your way out of Eric’s grasp.

“Sit! Sit!” Eric gestures to an armchair next to him as he sits back down. You decide to sit across the room, maintaining the distance. Eric frowns slightly but puffs on his cigar to mar his disappointment. “I’ve wanted to bring you here for a while. A smoking room is only for men, you know. No feminine wiles allowed here.”

That would explain the room’s decorative obsession with masculinity. “You already have a parlor. Two, in fact.”

“Bah! A parlor is for cards and sandwiches. With me locked in the house, I need my space from Barbara.” Eric huffs, “This is the only place I can get it. Barbara may be may things but a proper woman like her would never come in here.” He raises his glass to the portrait of James Solomon II on the wall. “Hats off to you, old man. You made me a Solomon and gave me your estate to boot.”

You don’t care about the Solomon name or Eric’s cushy life.

“Why did you do it, Eric?” you whisper.

Eric’s frown deepens _. “You know my name, Diedrich.”_ He says in Trussian. When you don’t answer, Eric walks over. “It was an accident! I was frightened for the boy. That...that _troll_ was there and he was scared!”

“His name is _James_ ,” you say, “and he was frightened because he was _lost_. He was lost and...Ortiza was _helping_ him. She was just a child, Eric. A ten year old and you... _shot_ her. You shot her _twelve_ _times_ and her mother’s in a coma...”

“Dirk, please! Don’t torment me like this. I didn’t mean for this to happen!” He turns away, rubbing his face in theatrical pain. “I’m a new father. I panicked over the bo— _James’s_ safety, and then to be locked up in this house--”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s been hard for _you_ ,” You growl, “having to enjoy your warm home stocked with plenty of food and water while a child is _dead_ and her mother may have _permanent_ brain damage thanks to _you_.”

Eric whirls on you, face dark with rage. “Have you already convicted me, then? Do you hate me as much as Barbara does?”

“This isn’t about you--”

“Do you know the nights I spent wide awake seeing that dead girl’s face? I couldn’t eat! I couldn’t sleep! I was in such a wretched condition that Barbara brought in a priest so I could confess and take penance, but I don’t feel clean, Dirk.” He looks away from you. “You don’t know what it’s like being MP. There’s so much pressure to be perfect and represent Leder’s best. They say I have work fatigue but everyone knows that’s a death sentence. That’s how Barbara’s father died: he had work fatigue and then an ‘accident’. An ‘ _accident’_ , they say!”

Eric laughs, his voice synchronizing with the sitcom.

“As if an accident could end the man who helped this city through five food riots!” There are tears in Eric’s eyes. “That is how the tribunal deals with things. If you are a failure, they prefer you die quickly than molder in retirement. Why do you think I was given this position so young? They needed a man to carry the Solomon name until I had a son. But now that may not come. Now, I may become another ‘casualty’ and Barbara will marry another man into the Solomon line...”

Eric heaves a mighty sigh and looks to the floor. _“I feel powerless. As if we are children again.”_ he whispers in Trussian, “ _Just children playing soldier and then being tossed in the rubbish bin when we broke…”_

You want to refuse him. You want to storm out the room and swear off Eric Solomon for the rest of your life, but you’re petrified. Eric is prone to emotional tantrums but nothing like this.

You stand and put a hand on his shoulder. Hating yourself, you choke out, “I…I haven’t convicted you. I’m sure you made a mistake but this is just so hard to digest.”

Eric smiles sadly. “You must be disgusted with me...crying like a miner’s wife.”

“You need help, Eric. There must be someone on staff that handles situations like this.”

Eric frowns. “All they do is give you pills and I’m not fond of those, or that head doctor and his snotty attitude.”

“Then go on vacation. See the West State and its cities.”

“And make it appear as if I am a coward? I’m not frightened.” He smiles and takes your hand. “Not with you here.”

“I can’t stay. I have to go back. You...you _know_ this.”

Eric blinks and then nods. “Yes, of course I know. But...” He strokes your hand with his thumb. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have one last hurrah. Let’s go to the opera. You should have one good memory before you leave. There’ll be a performance the day after tomorrow.”

The blood rushes to your head. You try to tug your hand from Eric but he holds on tighter. “What about your safety?”

“I fear nothing when I’m with you and I’ve taken all the necessary precautions, as I’m sure you can tell.”

You were told to leave the city soon as Eric’s verdict came in, but you haven’t made any arrangements as to how you’re going to exit with the official ports closed. Plus...once you leave Leder, you may never see Eric again.

“Fine...” you concede, “...last hurrah it is.”

Eric’s smile could have split his face in two. “Wonderful!”

Eric is pleased but you feel sick to your stomach. You leave the smoking room and walk along the hall. You’ve never been to the second level of the Solomon home and you need to clear your head. You turn down a hall and see Barbara standing next to a door. She’s wearing a slip showing off her long legs and smoking a cigarette. On the other side of the door is a carapace maid.

Barbara smirks. “Nice hickey.”

You instinctively cover your neck. When you recall there’s nothing there, your face burns with embarrassment.

“You mollies are all the same!” Barbara laughs, “Once someone’s onto your game, you turn into schoolgirls.”

Barbara snaps her fingers and the carapace maid holds out her palm. The woman puts out the cigarette in the maid’s palm. The maid doesn’t even shirk.

“Do me a favor and keep Eric busy.” Barbara says, “The more he’s bothering you, the less he’s going to be pester me.”

Barbara then returns to her bedroom. On the other side of the door, a man and Barbara laugh. You look to the carapace maid but she’s still as a statue.

You leave the Solomon home as if a plague has touched you, forgoing seeing James in a hurry to get away _._ When you return home, the streets are silent and the bakery is closed. You take the back entrance and hide in your apartment, resting on your couch as its your only space in the small area.

You wake up in the early morning and there is bright purple paint outside your window. You rush down the stairs and join the large crowd in front of the tenement. MP are marking off the area with yellow tape, holding bulky scanners as they walk around. You stand between Roxy and Jane as you look at your building. Sloppy letters run across the front like a gaudy amethyst sash:

ORTIZA LIVES!


	2. a night at the opera

The good news about the graffiti is that the Harlequin Bakery gets visitors, both the tenement inhabitants and curious on-lookers. The bad news is that MP surround your building. According to the radio, your tenement wasn’t the only one to be violated in the night. MP and firefighters have been deployed throughout to rid the city of graffiti. There are no ideas as to who could have defaced the buildings or how without being seen. 

It is the tenth day.

On the eleventh day--the day of the opera—the graffiti situation hasn’t been remedied. It continues to pop up in the night and there are no witnesses. The MP confiscate purple paint from the stores but the graffiti only appears in other shades. Trollslum is under total lockdown: no one allowed in or out, and yet, Trollslum is free of protests and graffiti. The terrified trolls have no idea what is going on and they’re either convincing liars or telling the truth.  

It’s not your concern. You ask to borrow one of Johnny’s suits for the opera.

“Don’t get your sandy head in a twist about this nonsense, Dirk.” Johnny opens a clothes trunk in his apartment. The scent of mothballs fills the apartment as he looks through the clothes. “People just want to see a good man fail. It’s just schadenfreude.”

“Do you think that?”

“Think what?”

“That Eric Solomon is a good man?”

“Well, I don’t know the fella personally but I judge a man by his actions. He’s served the city well and kept us all safe. That’s a good man by my standards.” Johnny take out a tan suit and shakes the dust off. “It was just an accident. These activists are blowing things out of proportion.”

Does Jane think that? She’s been incredibly quiet these days.

“—tight fit but should do the job.” Johnny sighs at the suit, “Haven’t worn this since the hardware convention with Pops.”

“How did Jane and you meet?” you ask, “Did you go to the same school?”

“What? No!” Johnny laughs, “I’m a Six Points man. I only got halfway through ninth grade ‘fore I had to help at home. Got further than my Dad though.” He shrugs. “I met Janey pushing business cards for Pops. Just me on the trolley trying to drum up business. I was lost in Brewer Basin and mighty thirsty with the sun beating down on me so I looked around for a restaurant. Most places spat on me being a Six Points swamp rat, so I come by her—the last place on the block that might take my coins for a drink—and through the window I saw the most beautiful girl with the prettiest eyes.” He grins. “I was scared at first but I went inside anyways and asked for lemonade. I thought she’d spit on me too but all Janey did was smile sweetly. That’s when I knew that I was gonna marry this girl.”

You don’t understand it either, but you assume that’s what true love must be like: two people gravitating toward each other despite massive differences.

Johnny shakes out the suit pants. “I think Janey took my name just to be polite. There’s no way my family made more money than hers...” He smiles, “...but I don’t care as long as Janey’s happy. She could be from a family of shit shovelers and I’d still grin and bear it all for her.”

You wonder how much Jane sacrificed to be with Johnny, but then you realize it doesn’t matter. Jane loves Johnny and Johnny loves Jane. That’s all that matters to them in the world.

“Thank you.” You whisper as the lump in your throat won’t let you speak any louder.

You borrow Jane’s sewing machine so you can tailor the suit. In the late afternoon, Roxy returns home smelling of tobacco, dust, and hemp.

“How long have you been here?” Roxy asks, shaking hemp fragments off her work apron.

“A few hours.” You answer, “What are you doing home so early?”

Roxy stares at you. “The walk-out was today, Dirk.” You briefly pause in your tailoring but before continuing. “I’ve been talking about it for two weeks! Working conditions are awful at the factory. The outhouses aren’t clean, the fans are broken, and there’s no child care for all the women there. We’re striking.”

Its possible she may have talked about it during your bi-weekly dinners at the Crocker-Egbert apartment, while you were thinking of the MP and trolls.

You remove the shirt from the sewing machine and check your work. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Roxy puts her apron on the coat rack.  “Dirk, why are you bothering with this guy?”

You frown. “What makes you assume it’s a guy?”

Roxy folds her arms. “I may be blonde but I’m not _stupid_. I know Hal and you were a thing. Even Janey’s smart enough to know you have the hots for her husband. She’s just too polite to say it.”

You look away from her. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I don’t care what you do with your life,” Roxy continues, “but you’re not doing anyone a favor by making yourself miserable.”

“Like I did you a ‘favor’?” You turn to her. “Doesn’t this marriage make you miserable?”

Roxy stares at you and her face becomes unreadable. “I didn’t have many options, now did I?”

She yanks the handkerchief off her head and walks to the bedroom. These days, you can hardly stand to be in the same room together. You know you’re not the most emotionally supportive guy, but Roxy has been moody lately. You think the emotional imbalance is due to her weight gain. The culprit has to be stress eating due to factory conditions, combined with the high fat and sugar diet common to South City and decrease in exercise since she no longer lives on a farm.

Whatever. It’s not your concern.

Why in the fuck did you get married? Oh, because you were scared to be alone after Geneva left.

You work on your extraction method. You’ve done it multiple times before—arranging the sensitive MP paperwork so it will go up quickly with a single match. Roxy ignores you, leaving for her shift at the bakery. When you’re done arranging, you suit up. You leave a message for your superiors that you’re ready to extract before leaving the tenement through the back door. You make sure to bring your katana, taping it to your leg.

MP are still patrolling your building, surveying the workers that are scrubbing off the graffiti. Said workers are a mix of disinterested carapaces and timid trolls. You only wait ten minutes outside until an MP van arrives for you.

The car moves slowly, steering around crowds returning home. As you enter the Lower South Side, you see more graffiti in rust, ochre, and indigo: _Ortiza Lives! Ortiza Lives! Ortiza Lives!_

Ortiza lives all over the city. Ortiza lives everywhere but in her body.

 

The car takes you to the Chestnut Tree Café. The sign outside says that its closed for a private party and the human waiter lets you in. Eric and Barbara are dressed in finery and surrounded by their friends. You recognize them from the MP files as Old Money families, categorized by the size of their donations.

Eric introduces you to his friends and you sit down to a meal. The dinner party has five courses but you barely touch your plate. You don’t have the stomach for food or the conversation.

“This is just a scare tactic by those so called pacifist activists.” says a woman with several pearl necklaces around her thick neck.

“I bet they paid some illiterate janitor to do.” adds her husband, “That would explain the rotten penmanship.”

“There’ll be no more of that. We’ve arrested all the activists on our rosters.” adds a man, with so many medals on his chest they may as well be a second shirt.

“Maybe _that’ll_ keep the hippies from turning our entire city into Trollslum.” sniffs another woman, stroking her mink coat.

“Now, now, everyone.” Eric puts out his cigar stab on a gold ashtray, “This is meant to be a celebratory night. Save business for another.”

He looks to you but you don’t acknowledge him.

After the dinner party concludes, people enter cars for the ride to the opera. You sit in the back of a stretch limousine between Eric and a drunk woman as they loudly talk over one another.

The opera house is two neighborhoods over in posh Twinsburg. The group separates leaving Eric and you alone in a box. You look down and see the audience is entirely humans, including the MP and their families.

“Crowded tonight.” Eric says.

“Uh huh.”

“Everyone’s been so stressed out, they could use a little relief.” Eric points to the crowd. “Even some of the tribunal are here. Look, he brought the whole pathetic family.”

You look into the audience and see a fat balding man stuffed into a suit. Next to him is an equally heavy wife and a small skinny daughter with thinning red hair.

You don’t care. Soon, you’ll be away from all of this. The red curtains sway and a man in a black suit steps out: a fiendish man with a sinister grin. The only object on stage is a tall microphone. The sinister man does not speak. Music plays but from where? You listen for the crackle of speakers but no, the music is around you. Illusory symphonies from nowhere. 

“What’s going on?” you whisper.

Eric touches your knee. _“Calm down, Diedirch. It’s performance art.”_

A woman you can’t see sings in Spanish; not the Leder dialect but the old standard that only Canzian students and Mehicans speak.

_“Yo estaba bien por un tiempo/volviendo a sonreír/Luego anoche te vi”_

“An old one but a good one,” Eric sighs.

You still can’t see the singer but the anguish of her words climb under your skin. Fingers of misery dig into your flesh like Sawtooth’s fingers as he pulls you into an unwanted embrace. You dig your nails into the armrest, threatening to tear it with your violent trembling.

“You know this song?” Your teeth are chattering.

Eric smiles.

“ _Y hablé muy bien / y tú sin saber / que he estado”_

The curtain opens, a sea of blood parting down the middle. The sinister man stands in the middle, chanting under the singer’s powerful voice. Eric grabs your shoulder.

_“llorando por tu amor / llorando por tu amor”_

Behind the curtain is a woman in heavy makeup and a Rococo dress. She sings and the still invisible orchestra ecstatically crashes their cymbals. Eric moves in to kiss you.

_“Luego de tu adios/sentí todo mi dolor”_

The woman wails her song and you scream. Your voice is smothered by cymbals, drums, and saxophone fill the theater. You shove Eric away and tumble out of the chair. Your instincts grab your reins and you run from the opera box. You hear Eric calling but don’t look back. You keep running.

Eric hunts you down and grabs your arm, trying to keep you still.

“Dirk, what’s wrong?” he asks.

“Let me go!” you yell.

“You’re panicking--”

“I said _let me go!”_

You shove him again with all your might. Eric stumbles back, staring at you. You’re alone in the hallway staring at each other.  

“Listen…Eric…I…” Your Spanish fails and you stumble into terrified Trussian. “ _Please stop. Stop trying to turn me into someone I’m not.”_

“What?” Eric smiles. “What are you talking about? Come now, let’s go back--”

He tries to take your hand but you step back.   

“I-I won’t.” you stammer, returning to Spanish. “I have to leave. Please let me leave.”

“Why?” Eric grinds his teeth, “ _Why_ do you have to leave? We can be happy here! I don’t want you to leave. You don’t want to leave. I did this, Dirk.” He gestures to the walls around you. “I did this for _you_ , so you’d realize Leder isn’t as terrible a place as you think.”

“I can’t stay here! I’m...a human being! Not your servant! Not your _pet_!”

“What is there for you in Canzia?” Eric snarls, closing the gap between you, “You were penniless and miserable! There’s a future for you here!”

“No.” You step away from him, shaking your head. “There’s no future here. There never was.”  

You run from and this time Eric doesn’t follow. You discover the elevator is out of order so you race down four flights of stairs. You’re breathing so fast that you feel dizzy but somehow you arrive at the ground level.

The entry lobby is empty. Even the dessert buffet is abandoned. There are no carapace workers overseeing the area or troll janitors sweeping the floor or polishing the entryway statues. You walk to the doorway guards are also missing.

The air in the lobby is stifling so you step outside. The night air is chilled but there are still no people around.

_/--unit 324 coming in—/_

The noise immediately seizes your attention.

_/Back up—requesting back up--/_

You follow the sputtering words into one of the alleys next to the opera house and find an MP issue walkie-talkie amongst garbage cans and discarded boxes.

_/--requesting back up—kzzt—unruly citizens—vzzt--/_

You pick up the walkie-talkie. “What’s going on?”

_/--zzt—they’re coming—Lord Sufferer they’re coming--/_

“Where are you?” you ask, louder.

_/--Lower South—VZZZZZZT--/_

The walkie-talkie shrieks static.

“Hello? Hello?” You switch to different channels but each one is garbled with static. “Can anyone hear me?”

Something is moving behind you. You stay still, pretending to be preoccupied with the walkie-talkie. When your attacker is within two feet, you whirl around and aim your fist at their solar plexus. The wind gets knocked out of them and they stumble backward. Your attacker is a small white carapace clutching a crowbar. The carapace swings at you and you move away, avoiding him striking your face.

You kick the carapace into the wall and their skull cracks against the brick. You doubt you killed him as carapaces are tougher to kill than the average human. Once you’re sure he’s out you yank up your pant leg and remove the katana handle taped to your leg. One shake and the blade slides out, clicking into place. You do a perimeter check and that’s when you notice the alleyway wall is smeared with dark red paint.

ORTIZA

it screams. You move closer to the dark red paint and see a body shoved behind a dumpster: an MP man with dead eyes and a slashed throat.

You return to your carapace attacker and turn them over: they’re the carapace driver that brought you from the Chestnut Tree Café to the opera house.

You don’t even know their name.

You can’t stay here. You run to the parking lot across the street. The parking lot is the same as it was before. The tollbooth barrier is up since the event was free. When you get closer, you see the valets are gone. Stuffed into the booth is an MP officer with his skull caved in. Your stomach lurches but you can’t afford to be sick. You stalk through the parking lot, using the various cars for cover.

You hold your breath as you pass two carapace valets spray painting cars. You move in the opposite direction and find a vespa in the back of the parking lot, which most likely belongs to one of the valets.

 _Any port in a storm_ , you decide, and start hotwiring it.

“Hey, asshole!” yells a valet, “The hell you think you’re doing?”

As much as you want to, you don’t have time to shout back a sassy quip. You connect the vespa’s wires and the motor rumbles. You jump on and speed away. The valet chase after you but you’re too fast. You charge out of the parking lot. You look at the opera house and see trolls have surrounded it. As you leave the neighborhood, a window crashes.

A man plummets from the fifth level and hits the ground in a red splatter.

You squeeze the vespa handles and urge it forward. You rush down a street leading into Cedarville...but where the fuck are you going? The walkie-talkie said there was trouble in the Lower South Side. You should head home and get the fuck out of Leder, but a face floats in front of your eyes: a young face with fearful red eyes.

You grit your teeth. No, you’re not going to let another child die. You turn the vespa down another street heading toward Robeline. As you approach the next neighborhood, you hear gunshots.

Maybe things will be over faster. Once the element of surprise is gone, the MP still has one advantage: firepower.

You’re ten minutes into Robeline--just coming into view of the Chestnut Tree Café--when the vespa hits a bump. Your front tire blows out and you the machine spins under you. The spinning becomes too much and your fingers let go of the handlebar. You go flying, skidding across the gravel. The vespa crashes into a metal fence and metal shards fly in every direction.

The side of your left arm is a bloody smear but your right cheek hurts far more. You touch it and your fingers come away bloody. Shit. You’ll have to worry about this later. You pick yourself up from the road and look behind you. Shining in the streetlights is a spike strip spread across the road. You were too busy rushing to notice the hazard. The MP must have set it up to prevent heavy artillery from entering or exiting the district.

More gunshots go off. You hobble to your feet, ignoring the pain in your legs. You grab your katana and walk toward the Solomon home. You stick to the back roads but you’re not alone. Men and women run through the streets in their nightclothes carrying everything they could grab.

You walk by the Chestnut Tree Café and see the curtains are pulled back. One window has been shattered by a bullet and another splattered with blood. Human employees lie on the floor, surrounded by dark blood. Groups of trolls move through the area, breaking down the doors and tossing the owners out. Rings and watches are yanked from men’s fingers and wrists, while pearl necklaces and fancy furs are removed from women.

When you arrive at the Solomon’s back entrance, your heart sinks. A dead MP officer lies on the stoop, bleeding out over the steps from a bullet wound in his chest. The door has been forced open so you push it slowly as you enter. The stench of blood and gunpowder slaps you in the face. You step over a dead butler and slink to the stairs leading to the entry floor. You move slowly, listening to the voices upstairs.

“Where is it?” snarls a voice.

“I swear sir, I don’t know!” whimpers a woman. You recognize the voice belonging to one of the many maids.

“The baby’s here. They said it’s _here_.” the voice demands.

You are still creeping up the backstairs. You hold your breath when you turn and walk by the kitchen. Just a few more feet and you’ll be at the stairs leading to the second level.

 

You peek into the crack in the door and see a purpleblood is standing over the oliveblood maid. A brownblood has her grasped by the throat, pressing a knife to her face. There is also a heavily armed rustblood who has their back is to you.

“You’ll be missing an eye if you don’t tell us where that sweet babe is.” cackles the brownblood.

“I don’t _know_!” sobs the maid, “Ms. Hutchinson took him out!”

You thank the maid for the shrieking distraction and rush up the stairs. When you’re on the second level, you hear the neighborhood siren start. It startles the downstairs intruders as well; their conversation shifting from the location of the Solomon baby to what the siren could mean for their plans.

You go to the nursery but it’s obvious the intruders had already been here. The crib is turned over, the closet opened with its contents tossed through the room, and everything else toppled in search of the boy. Instead of blindly searching, you scan the room for clues. The pacifier is still present so if James is still in the building, he’ll be crying for it. You think of the most soundproof room in the building and make your way to the smoking street. The door is shut but when you try to open it, it doesn’t budge.

“Ms. Hutchinson?” you whisper, “Ms. Hutchinson, are you in there? It’s Dirk Strider.”

Slowly, footsteps approach the door. “Mr. Strider, what are you doing here? It’s most dangerous!”

“Do you have James?”

“Yes, hold on…”

You thank all the gods above and below for the chaos outside covering the sound of Ms. Hutchinson moving furniture blocking the door. When the door opens you dart inside. Ms. Hutchinson looks up at you, holding James in her arms.  

“I-I was planning on taking James out for fresh air but I saw some shady men about the back of the house, so I snuck back inside.” whimpers Ms. Hutchinson, “I don’t know how long I can keep Young Master Solomon here though. He’ll be getting awfully hungry soon. Have you heard from Master Solomon?”

“I don’t think he’ll be--”

A scream echoes from downstairs followed by two gunshots. Hutchinson opens her mouth but you cover it. The carapace shakes in your grasp and you hear heavy footsteps heading up the stairs.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

You stay perfectly still. The steps pace around and go back down the stairs.

“Nothing up here. Whole place is fulla creaks!” says a troll.

Outside the front of the building, you hear shouting in a Trollslum accent. You can’t make out the words but you know its bad news.

You remove your hand from the old carapace’s mouth. “Give me James.” Ms. Hutchinson shakes her head. “Listen to me: you _can’t_ run with him. You’ll both get killed. I’m stronger and faster. I can get him out of here.”

There are tears in Ms. Hutchinson’s dark eyes but she stifles a sob.

“For seventy years,” she whispers, “my family has served the Solomons and now I’ll make sure it not ends. Please”--she hands James to you--"make sure he grows to be a good man.” She digs into her petticoat pocket and hands you a key ring with two keys on it: bronze and silver. “The silver is for the armory and the bronze for the secret exit. If you go down the hall and turn left, there’s a door in the closet. Master and Mistress Solomon would use it for their...lovers.”

You’ve heard of similar things built during the paranoid fervor of the Great War. Once James is in your arms and the key handed over, Ms. Hutchinson smoothes down her dress and straightens her bonnet.

“What about you?” you ask.

Ms. Hutchinson smiles. “I shall do as I’ve always done: serve the Solomons.”

Then the governess exits the room. Without his nanny, James starts whimpering.

It’s then you remember you know nothing about toddlers, or how to keep them from crying so murderous trolls won’t gut you.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’re gonna be fine.” You tear James’s blanket and gag him with it. “This is a game, okay? Its called ‘keep quiet’.” James whimpers, blinking tears. “It’s temporary. It’ll be fine...”

You feel like an asshole but you can’t risk his crying. You unlock the closet and see the place is stockpiled with guns and ammo for big game hunting.

Downstairs, there’s shouting, the nanny quailing, and guns firing. Another district’s siren goes off and James shivers.

“Stay calm, stay calm…” you whisper.

James isn’t the only one panicked. You’re trembling and you have no idea why. This is nothing compared to being trapped in a mazelike mansion with Cherubs around every corner gunning for you.

It dawns on you as you pile ammo into James’s toddler bag that this situation is a _lot_ worse. In Trussia it was just a job. Here, this is personal with your friends and family involved. A slight fuck-up won’t result in a reprimand. You could die. Someone you love might die.

Shit, people are already dead. Maybe Eric is dead. Maybe _Roxy_ is dead.

A loud bang disrupts your thoughts. James’s shriek is muffled by the gag and he starts crying. You sling the bag over your shoulder and grab James. You ignore the smell of smoke as you secure James to your torso with curtain cords.

You open the door to be confronted by fire alarm loudly beeping and smoke filling the house. The attackers couldn’t find James so they torched the place just to be sure. You run through the smoke and open the closet, yanking down coats and revealing the hidden door. Even after unlocking the door, its still heavy and takes a lot of energy to force open.

You ascend the dusty stairs to the rooftop. Smoke streams from the Solomon home but its not the only place enflamed. The smoke turns the sky darker and you seek your own escape before the building collapses with you on top of it. You find the fire escape, but smoke masks the ground. You have no idea if you’ll be alone on the ground or if the intruders are waiting for you.

The nearest building is five feet away: a jump you can definitely risk even with James. You take a running jump and leap across the gap, rolling onto the next roof and making sure to protect James’s head. You run down the building’s fire escape and into an alley. James isn’t in as great a condition as you are and pukes on you. Thanks to your lack of foresight _,_ don’t have anything to clean him up with. You end up using your suit jacket to wipe him down.

“Shh, it’s okay.” You whisper in the shadow of a building.

MP officers arrive and fire wildly into fleeing crowds. You doubt they can tell victims from attackers.

James looks at you with tears in his eyes. “Wanna go home…”  

“Me too, little man.” You re-tie James to you. You can’t gag him with the puke soaked rag so you hope he stays quiet. You put ammo in one of the Glocks and hope you won’t have to use it often.

You stick to the shadows but can’t avoid trouble. Trolls come at you with knives or equally sharp swords and you have to hold James while fending them off. You get bruised and battered, but James is safe.

You keep heading south, making for the border of Upper South Side and Mezzotown. The area is crawling with trolls, carapaces, lizards, and a few humans. They’re a mob of the downtrodden swarming together—miners, janitors, bakers, grocers, drivers, cigar rollers, maids and menservants. The streets are crammed with people so you climb onto a building via fire escape. Smoke pours out of buildings and there’s a single fire truck with a sparse crew attempting to defeat it. Mobs attack each other—MP versus citizens, citizens versus rioters, rioters versus everyone—and no one sure who is who.

 

 

Leder is eating itself alive.

Several MP heads explode. You scan the horizon and see shadows on the tops of other buildings.

Your heart thunders in your chest. Snipers. They have fucking _snipers._ This isn’t just a regular riot; this is organized and deadly. The strange graffiti was a distraction and a method to spread the MP across the city and have them target Trollslum, when the real danger was under their noses. They want Eric Solomon. They want his son.

They want justice with all its horrors.

You need to get to Brewer Basin. You need to know if Roxy, Jane, and the others are alive...but how? The main roads of Upper South Side are closed off by barricades and swarms of people.

Using your sword, you sketch a map in the rooftop dirt. Currently, you’re in Upper South Side and the trolley route (the quickest way) into Mezzotown is shut down. The back roads will take you through smaller but questionable districts like East Zone and Almeder. If you’re lucky, you can get to the Lower South Side and to Brewer Basin.

James sniffles. “Wanna go _home_.”

“It’ll be fine, little man. I promise.” You say because there’s no way the little guy can go home again.

The streets are slick with blood and mud. You run from MP and armed trolls alike and kill anyone in your way, whether it’s man, woman, or teenager. For those that would take too much effort to kill, you run as fast as your legs will carry you. The only time you stop is to loot an officer’s body for his flashlight.

You’ve survived war before. You can do it again.

You thank all the gods that you make it to the Lower South Side with only blood and bruises. James is quiet, no longer crying about the blood splatter on his face or the handgun noise. You run down a nearly empty street in the Lower South Side when the ground quakes. The looters pause and you turn around. A dark shadow moves down the street and those that don’t jump out of its way are crushed under its massive treads.

Tanks.

You run out of the and into an alley. A frightened man tries to stab you and you disembowel him. You climb the rickety fire escape look down from the roof.

The tank slowly plows down the street but its pace slows further as the road narrows. At the end of the street is a barricade of spare wood and garbage and behind it, a cooperation of trolls, carapaces, lizards, and humans. Once the tank is within fifty feet, they attack the tank with fireworks and Molotov cocktails. 

Explosions set off in front of the tank, engulfing the machine in orange-yellow flames and trapping the men inside.

It took them three seconds to destroy a tank.

“Gods help us.” You whisper.


	3. the monsters are due on maple street

**== >Past Dirk: Be Past Roxy several hours prior  **

Late afternoon is a slow time for the bakery. The people that come in smile painfully hard, making polite small talk to smother their fears. In the bakery, a nervous tingle moves under your skin. The feeling doesn’t have a proper equivalent in Spanish. In Sharsi Shongolian, it roughly translates to ‘being the goat sniffing a storm before the shepherd sees a cloud’.

You wonder if you’re the goat or their clueless shepherd. You take your mind off your troubles by talking to Jane.  

“I just can’t figure it out.” You sit on a stool in the back of the kitchen while Jane stirs batter. Johnny is minding the cash register and Mr. Crocker is on a grocery run. “How could someone graffiti the building without anyone seeing them?”

“A psionic could do it.” Jane says, not looking up from her stirring.

You shudder when you think of the idiot grocer and his wife down street--living no better than declawed kittens. “There’s no psionic trolls in Leder. They’ve all been...operated...on.”

“The detected ones. You said that trolls go to the countryside to avoid it, as such operations are against the Shongolian religion.”

“They still have chips in them and the MP visit monthly to monitor them, _and_ use psi-scanners. Even if they have psionics, it’s impossible for them to use it without getting arrested. The MP would’ve said if something was amiss.”

“As if the MP tell us simple folk everything they know.” Jane chuckles. She shuts the door and turns to you. When she speaks, her voice is far lower, “What are you going to do about Dirk?” You make a face but Jane smiles sweetly. “Roxy, I know you’re pregnant.”

You’re barely showing but Jane has always had a high level of intuition. “A kid wasn’t part of the deal...”

“I know, Dirk isn’t a dim solar panel. Eventually, he’ll connect the dots--”

“I don’t _want_ him to.” Jane tries to argue but you won’t hear of it. Not after how Dirk spoke to earlier. “I don’t _want_ him to feel indebted to me and I don’t want him to treat me like _his_ ball and chain. I don’t want him in my life anymore.”

Jane looks down. “I had a feeling this would happen but...I treasure you both so much. I had hoped that things would work themselves out, but I guess it was selfish to think that.”

“It’s not your fault this happened.” You sigh. “I can’t go back to East State, so I’ll try West. There’s plenty of work at the fisheries.”

Jane touches your shoulder. “I’ll miss you, darling. Send me a postcard.”

“I’d bring you with me if I could, Janey.”

Jane smiles. “I know, but my place is with Johnny.”

You know that but your heart aches at the thought of being separated from Jane.

“Have you thought of names?”

“I always liked ‘Dave’ for a boy and ‘Rose’ for a girl.”

Jane tilts her head. “Dave and Rose? No Shongolian names?”

“No one knows how to pronounce Shongolian names and no one would hire them either.”

The door jingles and you leave the kitchen to go answer it. Mr. Crocker enters the bakery holding a bag of groceries with one hand and rubbing his battered, bleeding nose with another.

“Pops, what happened?” Johnny asks.

“I had an altercation.” Mr. Crocker grunts, putting his bags on the counter. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Jane steps out the kitchen and gasps. “Daddy, what _happened_? Your nose is all busted!”

“Janey, calm down.” Mr. Crocker sighs, “It’s not as bad as it looks.  Just got into an argument with an overzealous officer--”

“This tears it! Johnny, we’re moving!” Jane declares, “I won’t have MP skulking about our baby!”

“Janey, we can’t afford to move…” Johnny sighs.

You move from behind the counter as the couple once again bickers about the price of rent versus safety in South City. “Let me take care of you, Mr. Crocker.” You say.

Mr. Crocker sighs but doesn’t decline the offer. He must be in pain, especially the nose injury which looks like it was done by a baton. You go to the Crocker-Egbert apartment so you can treat his wounds.

“Looks like you gave them one for though.” You say as you look over his bloody, callused knuckles.

“He was a young punk.” Mr. Crocker shakes his head. “Could never tolerate punks with too much power. I had enough of them in the ring.”

You can easily see Mr. Crocker shirtless and sweaty as he beats another man into submission. “I bet you looked really handsome, despite all the blood...”

“Are you...” Mr. Crocker looks away and his ears redden. “Ms. Strider, while I’m flattered that you’re interested in me, I don’t think I have to remind you that you’re a married woman.”

You smile. “You’re so...sweet.”

A blush spreads across Mr. Crocker’s face. “Sweet?”

“Like sugar…” There’s a lump in your throat as you say it. “I only married Dirk because I needed to get away from my family…but we’re not happy. Makes me wonder that if we met first...that maybe things would’ve been different?”

“Maybe...” Mr. Crocker touches your cheek, but as quickly as his rough fingers are on your skin, they’re taken away. “...but you can’t be Janey’s best friend _and_ her stepmother.”

You nod. “I know.”

You can’t ever embrace the relationship; not in this reality. You put away the first aid kit and leave the Crocker-Egbert apartment.

“Stay safe, Mr. Crocker.” You won’t mention the ominous feeling crawling under your skin.  

Mr. Crocker nods and closes the door behind him before returning to the bakery. You go to your apartment and try to wash the dish pile in the sink, but break two glasses. Then you cry for ten minutes because fuck hormones. There’s no point in trying to accomplish the simplest task right now, so you curl up on the couch and try to sleep.

 

You wake to a storm siren’s scream. Still fighting your sleepy haze, you stumble to the window. Paint remains on the glass, but you can make out the distinct bright ripple of street fires and running crowds. An MP van lies in the middle of the street, turned on its side with no officers in sight.  

There’s a banging at your door. “Ms. Strider? Ms. Strider, are you there?” calls Mr. Crocker. When you open the door, Mr. Crocker is sweating and his face is tense.  

“W-what’s going on?” you ask.

“Riot.” Mr. Crocker says, “Do you know where your husband is?”

A riot? Oh gods, you have no idea what to do during a riot. You’d only _heard_ of them in the countryside.

“I-I don’t know. He’s with friends, I think.”

“Then I pray those friends are good people. Barricade yourself in, Ms. Strider. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

“What about you?”

Mr. Crocker walks to the stairs. “I’m going to make rounds in the neighborhood, check on the elderly and the sick. I may bring them back here if it’s not safe where they are.”

“ _What_?” You follow him and grab his hand. “What about the bakery?”

“Johnny and Janey are watching it.” says Mr. Crocker, “The rioters aren’t after a bakery.”

You don’t release his hand. “Mr. Crocker, we need your protection _here_.”

“Years ago I made a promise.” Mr. Crocker says, not looking at you. “I promised that I would always help my fellow citizens, no matter the social standing or the species. There are other people in Brewer Basin that are worse off than we are. You can handle things here.” The man stubborn yanks his hand away. “Be safe, Ms. Strider.”

Then Mr. Crocker runs down the stairs. You curse him in Shongolian through your tears and retreat to your apartment. You go to the bedroom closet and uncover your rifle. Guns are illegal for private ownership but that never stopped Shongolian shepherds and the MP always turned a blind eye. You had hoped never to use it, but you’re glad to have it now. You block the door with the dining table and use the apartment phone to call the bakery.

“How are things down there?” you ask.

“Everyone’s scared, and so am I.”  Jane inhales. “Oh, Roxy, what are we going to do? I can’t let our baby live in fear...”

“We’re gonna be fine!” Johnny insists over the sound of hammering. “It’ll blow over. It _always_ blows over for the nugs.”

“Johnny, _shush_!”  Then Jane says, “I’m going upstairs as soon as the barricading is done. I hope there’s no fires…”

“It’s going to be alright.” You say unconvincingly, “Do you know how to use a gun?”

“Yes, but we haven’t had one in the apartment since--”

There’s a loud crash and the phone hits the floor. You run to the window and see a crowd of trolls have surrounded the front of the building. At the far end of the street, another group of trolls have set up a barricade and are exchanging Molotov cocktails and bullets with MP officers.

Jane screams from downstairs. Adrenaline floods your body and you toss the table from the door. Rifle in hand, you run down the five floors. You slip and fall on the last set of stairs but you’re not on the floor for long. Bruises be damned. Jane needs you.

You kick the backdoor open. You have to squint through the smoke to find Jane. Jane is lying on the floor sobbing, as one troll has her pinned and another is tearing at her clothes.

You don’t regret shooting both bastards.

Jane scrambles to the corner of the room, covering her face and sobbing. You approach the bakery window, which has been shattered by a huge chunk of gravel. The broken remains of a Molotov has blown the front door off the hinges and a small fire is spreading. You’ll worry about that later. Your eyes are on the crowd of trolls outside. They’re nothing like the hopeless souls of Trollslum, keeping their heads and spirits low. There’s a dangerous fire in their eyes.

“Next fucker who comes in this bakery eats _lead_!” you snarl.

The gang looks like they might challenge you: there’s eight of them and only one of you. Your salvation comes in the form of a bullet piercing a purpleblood’s skull. The trolls shout and run down the road to avenge their ally.

With the threat gone, you survey the bakery. Broken glass is spread along the floor and fire is consuming the harlequin statues and paper decorations. You get water from the kitchen and pour it on the remaining fires. Now all that remains are wet ash and melted plastic.

Jane sits by a body tossed to the left side of the room. Across from it is a bloody splatter and dent in the wall from the harsh impact of someone’s skull. You move closer to Jane and look at the body. The skull’s cracked open with white and red brain matter leaking out.

You look away before you vomit. “I…is…” The bile rises in your throat. You can’t say it.

Jane says nothing.

You can’t bear to look at the corpse. You yank the cloth off a toppled table and drape it over Johnny’s body. Jane doesn’t move from her husband’s side.

You pick up Johnny’s tools and finish barricading the windows. You prop a table in front of the doorway, grab a chair and sit next to Jane. Another siren wails. People are screaming and crying in the streets. You patrol the back hallway and watch your neighbors abandon the tenement. You watch their movements and don’t rest for anything. Not even for water.

You are back on the steppe, watching for wolves.

 

You don’t know how much time passes before you hear footsteps above you. You follow them, walking to the bakery’s backdoor and aiming your rifle. Slowly, the door opens.

“Hands where I can see them!” you order.

Dirk looks at you from the doorway, face bleeding and scabby. He has a toddler strapped to him with a rope and a bloody katana in hand. The toddler looks miserable; eyes red from crying, pajamas stained with blood and puke.

“What...” Dirk looks at you and then at Jane. “...w-what happened?”  

“Trolls happened.” You say, lowering your rifle. “Who’s the kid?”

“This? This is...” Dirk looks at the toddler. “Long story. Not the time. We have to get out of here.”  

“Dirk, you’re _bloody_! You need a first aid or you’ll get an infection--”

“No time. No point. _We have to leave._ ” Dirk places the kid on the counter. “They’re gonna come look for us. We can’t stay in South City.”

“And where do you expect us to _go_?” Your eyes are still on the kid. You’ve never seen someone so...colorless. It makes you think he could be a changeling.  

Dirk doesn’t answer. He goes to the kitchen, runs the water, and comes back with a dishrag. He tries to wipe the kid’s face but Dirk may as well have clay for hands when it comes to handling kids.

“Dirk,” you growl, “what the hell did you _do?”_  

“I did a favor for a friend!” Dirk snaps. The kid flinches and Dirk goes back to trying to clean him. “Listen, we...we need to go north. We can’t stay here any longer _._ ”

“And why is that?”

Dirk glances at the kid but then says, “The rioters...they’re not just trolls. They’re a large group working together. They’re not going to stop.”

Something tells you that’s only half of the story. “Mr. Crocker is still out there.”

“Then _I’m_ going.” Dirk says, “Barricades are popping up. Soon we’ll be locked into this madhouse.” He looks at the kid’s face, which isn’t even close to clean. “We don’t have time to argue.”

You’re _really_ starting to hate this bastard. “Fine, but I’m not going without Janey or supplies.”

Dirk looks at the cloth-covered body. His face blanches but he doesn’t say a word. You walk to Jane and touches her shoulder.

“Jane, we have to go.” You say. Jane doesn’t answer. “We can’t stay here.”

Jane still doesn’t answer. Johnny’s blood seeps through the sheet.

“Janey, please…” You wrap your arms around her. “…think of your child.”

Jane stands so abruptly that you back away. She walks to the backdoor and doesn’t respond when you call her. You follow behind Jane, letting Dirk guard the bakery. Jane walks up the stairs and unlocks her apartment. Still not noticing you, she goes opens the dresser. Without saying a word, Jane strips out of her torn dress and puts on her dead husband’s clothes.

Once redressed, Jane walks to the kitchen. On the walls are pictures of Jane and Johnny throughout the years—dates, wedding day, and the little moment in-between. Jane pulls a picture of Johnny’s smiling face off the wall and smashes the frame on the counter edge. Her smooth fingers pull the picture out, fold it, and place it in her breast pocket—directly over her heart.

Then Jane turns to you. There are no tears in her eyes or a hint of sadness; just emptiness at seeing her dreams murdered. “Let’s go.”

You shake your head. “Jane, are...are you sure…?”

Jane walks to the door. “You should change too. Anything in a skirt is bound to be raped.”

A chill goes down your spine. You’ve never heard Jane’s voice so...barren.

Then Jane leaves. There’s not enough time to run up to your place, so you borrow Johnny’s clothes. You slick your hair back and braid it, tucking the tail into your shirt collar.  

You find two knapsacks in another chest. You empty the Crocker pantry into the first one, making sure that the food is lightweight and will last a few days if you ration carefully. For the second, you put in wrenches, screwdrivers, can openers, and other small tools from Johnny’s toolbox.

Dirk is standing by Johnny’s body. The kid is still on the counter, too scared to move. Jane sits in the chair you occupied earlier.

“How did you get in here?” you ask.

“Fire escape. I went to our apartment but it was empty. I thought you left but then I remembered you’re working in the bakery now, so I came down to check.” He looks at the kid. “Had to take a breather though. Not used to carry a kid around.”

Kids are always heavier than they look and it couldn’t have been comfortable for the kid either.

“I have an idea.” You tell Dirk.

Using a tablecloth and twine, you jury-rig a carrying basket for Dirk and the kid. The kid seems confused but he’ll be more comfortable in the long run. “Shongolian women carry their babies this way when they’re working.”

“Thank you for doing this...” Dirk mutters.

“It’s not for you. It’s for him.” You point to the kid. “What’s his name?”

“His name…” Dirk hesitates. “I don’t know. It just…”

You roll your eyes. Some parent _he’ll_ be. “Never mind. What’s in your bag?”

Dirk opens the bag, showing you a cache of weapons. You’d ask him what armory he raided if it didn’t implicate you in his crime. You take the ammo and a machete. You also take the tool knapsack, giving Jane the one with the food in it since it’s lighter. After double-checking your supplies, you leave the tenement and enter the chaos.

 

South City is roaring; more deafening than it has ever been during the festivals. Perhaps even during the food riots (which you’ve never witnessed living out in the country but heard of). You step over bodies tossed in the gutter or pass by corpses floating in canals.  

You tell your mind it’s no different from gutting sheep so you don’t vomit.  

Even though you’re careful and use the back roads, you can’t avoid trouble. Dirk is more than prepared with his sword and so is your sharpshooting. Your skills are the only thing standing between you and death.

Jane says nothing, still sunk into quiet despair. After you shoot a bulky carapace and gut an iguana, the kid starts crying again. The kid’s voice is loud and blood in water for every maniac roaming around. You can’t fight them all so you have to run and hide.

A huge mound of garbage bags and a dead body saves your lives. You try not to breathe in the odor as you hide. Dirk has a death grip on the kid with his hand clamped over the kid’s mouth as he tries to get free.

You shut your eyes and think of the open sky and grasslands. You wait for a half hour until danger passes. You shove garbage bags aside and shakily open your bag. Dinner is a sandwich assembled from what you could scrounge in the pantry. Jane eats silently and Dirk frustrates himself to no end trying to get the kid to eat.

“C’mon, little man. You have to eat.” Dirk says. The kid shakes his head. “For fuck’s sake...you cry this whole damn time and you’re _not_ hungry?”

You question how healthy the kid is. Heavily mutated children should be in special schools with people that know how to handle them.

“You can’t keep him.” You say. Dirk doesn’t look at you. “I’m sorry but you _can’t_. You don’t know how to take care of a kid. You should give him to an orphanage--”

“Keep talking and I’ll kill you.”

Your hand is on your rifle. “You care to repeat that?”

“He’s my responsibility.”

“At least tell me here you _got_ him from. You don’t know the first thing about kids!”

“What is your _problem_? You’ve been a complete ass to me for the past month!”

“That’s because you’re clueless--”

Footsteps move toward you. Dirk and you turn from each other and face the new threat. Huddled shapes move down the alley, their backs lit by fire.

You aim your gun barrel. “Back the fuck up!”

“Please don’t shoot!” they plead, “We have children with us!”

“Wait.” Dirk steps forward, “Father Jimenez?”

“…Dirk?”

Dirk shines the flashlight down the alley. The preacher’s face is pale and his eyes are wide. Beside him is Meenah carrying Feferi and Gamzee, holding a bent metal pipe smeared with blood. They’re all bruised and bleeding but Gamzee and Father Jimenez seem to have suffered the worst, both sporting black eyes.

Dirk looks at Meenah. The seatroll has lost her veil and there’s a hip-long tear in her gown. “What happened?”

“The obvious.” Meenah inhales. “Almost.”

“Rioters?”

The fuchsiablood shakes her head. “MP.”

You share your small meal with them. Gamzee wolfs down his sandwich but Feferi turns away, too frightened to eat.

“This is nothing like the usual food riots.” Father Jimenez says, “No demands are being made. No goal is obvious. Someone yanks at the strings of madness. Lord Sufferer pity us all.”

Meenah touches the priest’s shoulder in sympathy. “We were barricaded with our when the MP stormed in. They were grabbing everyone in the neighborhood but when they saw our group, they said we were collaborators. They were going to kill us all on sight but...” She looks to her purpleblood son.

“My son provided a necessary distraction so that we could get away.” Father Jimenez says, patting Gamzee on the head. The boy scrubs at his black eye.

“Barricades are going up all over the city.” Dirk says, “We need to head north...”

Gunfire cracks off and people shout, running your way from danger.

“We can’t stay in the open.” Meenah says.

“Do you have any qualms about weapons?” you ask.

Father Jimenez looks stunned. “I...I’ve never even _held_ a gun.”

“I have.” Meenah says, taking the handgun. You also borrow Jane’s scissors and cut the troll’s gown knee-high.

You pick up your things and move as a group. Dirk and you are in the front with Meenah and Gamzee in the back. Father Jimenez is in the middle, watching over Jane and carrying Feferi.

The night seems to extend too long but your sense of time is skewed. You come to an abandoned shopping district located where Brewer Basin becomes Six Points. Every window and door is smashed and the stores dark and abandoned.  

You pick a deli that’s far from the road so it won’t attract much attention. Tables and chairs are toppled and the carapace owner has been shot dead, lying in the middle of the tiled floor. Floating next to him in a pool of blood is a sign: Humans & Carapaces Only. Dirk and Meenah move the body out of the deli, tossing it into the middle of the road. When they return, you shove and stack the tables and chairs against the doorway and the windows.

You set up in the far end of the store, hidden behind the counter. There’s a storage room of cardboard boxes, which you flatten so you won’t have to sleep on the floor. Once a cardboard bed is laid out, Gamzee curls up in the corner with Feferi and quickly falls asleep. The kid is also asleep, lying next to Dirk. You sit in silence with the other adults until another siren goes off. You look at the windows and see the streetlights flicker, then shut off.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Containment.” Father Jimenez sighs, “They do this during food riots: shut off the power and water in different areas so the rioters will have to relocate or starve.”

“But what about the disruptors?” Meenah asks, “The MP won’t win if they get malaria and breakbone fever.”

Dirk scratches the scabby wound on his face. “They have backup generators but they’ll only run for a day.”

“We may be better waiting this out. I’ve survived three food riots and they always blow over.” Father Jimenez says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. His eyes are on Feferi and Gamzee, sleeping on the floor of an empty deli that, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t allow them inside.

You look at Dirk, “Can we even make it out of the city now? They have to be watching the bridges.”

“The real question is _who’s_ watching.” Meenah says, “The MP will shoot _us_ and the rioters will shoot _you_.” 

Dirk mulls over her words and sighs. “We won’t make it far on foot. Once the sun is up, the heat will be on us too.” You open your mouth to argue but he shakes his head. “Wit the river dividing South City from the rest of the state and the ocean on the other side, we’re surrounded by water. North is the only way.”

“Not unless we become pirates.” You snort.

Meenah’s earfins flick and she leans against the counter. “Who’s to say that _isn’t_ an option?”

Dirk looks at her. “You can’t be serious--”

“What other option do we have? They won’t be expecting it.”

Father Jimenez looks to his wife. “What are you talking about?”

“New Jack City.” Meenah says.

“What?” you ask.

“New Jack City is south of here.” Meenah says, “The ocean current always goes that way. It’s why you need a boat with an engine if you want to _leave_ for Leder.”

“Are you _insane_?” you ask, “How long would that take? Are we supposed to sprout wings and fly? Not to mention the sharks...the Coast Guard...”

Meenah doesn’t answer. Her eyes are locked with Dirk’s. The man slowly inhales.

“The festival boats,” he says, “The boats are still in the docks of Seaside Park. Because of the...incident...the festival was delayed--”

“There’s no guarantee the boats are even still there.” Father Jimenez says.

“The boats are by the harbor. Once you’re inside the park, they’re not hard to miss.” Dirk says, “Even if there are no boats, there are other ways to float from here to New Jack. The storage has boards and smaller boats for the rides. We just need a structure sturdy enough to take us from Point A to Point B.”

Meenah frowns. “But Point B is about eight hours away, pending on the weather…”

“And what about the Coast Guard?” you press, “They snatch people like us and put us in _jail_! Do any of us even know enough _English_ to explain what’s going on?”

“Meenah and I know English,” Dirk says, “and there is Esmeralda’s Law. Close blood relatives of refugees can request asylum of their relatives in another country.”

“That law only applies if the situation is internationally recognized as an emergency worth intervening in.” Father Jimenez says, “The Coast Guard may not be aware of what’s happening. You know how isolationist Leder is.”

“It’s a risk worth taking,” Meenah says, “I never revoked my citizenship, so I’m still a Canzian and my family is still in New Jack.”

“I’m a UTC citizen as well,” Dirk says, “and I’m married to Roxy, so they can’t forcibly separate us.”

“Wait, _wait_ ,” Father Jimenez sighs, “this is moving so fast. We don’t even know _where_ we are.”

“Then let’s figure out where.” You open the cupboard counter and pull out the only things that the looters didn’t take: eating utensils and napkins.

Using your mental map, you arrange glasses, forks, and spoons in a rough layout of South City. Dirk holds a flashlight so you can have a better sense of arrangement. You feel like you’re back in primary school, except your life is on the line.

When the map is finished, you place your finger between two napkins and a fork. “We’re in Six Points. Seaside Park is in the Lower West Side, which means we have to cross through Indietown or Little Nehetaly before we get there.”

“That’s a long walk. With the power out, the trolleys won’t be running.” Dirk says.

Meenah stifles a yawn. “For now, let’s try to sleep.”

You draw straws to see who has the first watch, which is Father Jimenez. The preacher sits by the barricades with his machete, ready to raise alarm at the first sign of trouble. You lay on cardboard with one arm wrapped around Jane and the other within reach of your rifle.

You don’t sleep long and wake an hour before dawn with dry eyes and stinking of fear and sweat. Breakfast is a handful of dry cereal and shared sips from a soda pop bottle. Father Jimenez jokes with the children that you’re having a ‘hobo’s picnic’. Gamzee smiles but he doesn’t join the jollity. Feferi solemnly clings to her brother.

The water in the deli sink is flecked with rust; too dangerous to drink but fine for scrubbing off grime. Meenah wraps sopping rags around Feferi and her gills so they don’t dry out.

The kid barely eats and won’t talk. Having been around your nieces and nephews of similar age, the kid’s incredibly quiet.

Jane says nothing. You hold her hand when you leave the deli.

Dawn is coming to South City.


	4. dragging themselves through streets at dawn

The deli’s victory garden is empty—cassava and potato roots have been dug up and the measly orange tree shaken down. Dirk and you silently lead your group through the back ways, still not on speaking terms.

You walk the maze of back streets, moving behind dumpsters and garbage mounds. The city looks alien as you gaze sights never seen before: dead human men, stripped of clothes and left to rot, abandoned MP uniforms and badges tossed into the gutter.

After moving through the back roads, you come to Main Street. Going by your memory map, you know you’re in the Lower South Side, not far from New Post High School. Different groups are scattered along the road. Some dig through garbage piles and dismantle barricades for supplies. Others raid the abandoned restaurants and victory gardens of ice cream shops and liquor stores in pursuit of a meal.

People squint at your mixed group but don’t approach. They figure that the temporary upset of the riots must make for strange bedfellows. As you walk down the road, there’s an increase in debris: abandoned MP vans, corpses, empty tin cans, clothes soiled with blood and other bodily fluids, and the burnt remains of a pyre. Humans sleep in a powerless trolley with ORTIZA LIVES! on its side in bright purple.

The Main Street sky has always had a tangle of wires stretching across it. It’s always been an issue, from unsightliness to being a fire hazard. Today, it has a new ornament: three corpses—two men and a woman—in fancy clothes, hung and swaying in the breeze like murderers and rapists. Ravens indifferently tear strips of rotting flesh and eyeballs from them.

 

 

Feferi is the first to cry out, covering her eyes. Gamzee tries to calm her down but she’s too frightened. Meenah is indifferent but being a troll in South City means being up close and personal with ugliness more than anyone should ever be.

Jane stares but says nothing.

Father Jimenez prays for their souls.

Your stomach heaves but you don’t vomit.

Dirk is whispering to himself, words running in a loop.

“They wanted everyone to see.” He murmurs, “They wanted to make an example of them...it’s too late...I’ve failed...I’ve failed...”

The kid is trembling, staring at the horror. Dirk covers his eyes.

“...don’t look, little man...” Dirk whispers.

Your heart aches for him. You should tell him that it’s going to be all right; that you’re going to make it...but a dull noise catches your attention. Loud drumbeats and guitar fill the air: illegal music but treasured by pirate radio stations.

You grab Jane and run in the opposite direction. “ _Run!_ ”

Everyone follows as you flee through the streets. Even the people sleeping on the trolley stumble away.

You run helter-skelter through streets that you strolled through on your way to school. You pass the flower shop that always had sales around graduation ball. You pass the only malt shop that welcomed students and had the best egg creams. You pass the tiny dance hall, the jeweler, and barber—now empty of hospitality and people.

“In here!” You turn down the alley between the barbeque restaurant and bicycle shop. This was always your hideaway from the bullies that would come for you outside of school.

You squat in the shadow of the dumpster and peer down the road.

An MP truck rumbles down the road, but carapaces are driving it. Sitting in the back are trolls in MP uniforms, holding guns and machetes. Music blasts from the stereo as the truck moves slowly. When a troll looks in your direction, you duck behind the dumpster. 

“Shut up! Shut up!” Dirk hisses. The kid is crying, trying to get away. Dirk clamps his hand over the kid’s mouth, muffling the noise. “Shut up, please fucking shut up or we’re going to--”

You shut your eyes and pray to your ancestors. You listen for the truck to stop, for murderous trolls to stomp after you. You don’t breathe until the truck rumbles by. 

“Gods, they have MP supplies.” Dirk’s breathing is haggard.

“Who knows what else they have.” Meenah says.

“Then it’s leave or die.” You whisper.

Your words hang in the air, severe and untouchable.

Dirk removes his fingers from the kid’s mouth. The kid’s eyes and face are red but he’s too exhausted to cry.

“Our timetable just got shorter.” Dirk says, “We definitely need a car.”

No one argues as to how in the hell you’ll accomplish that feat.

You peer down the main road and see the truck has stopped only a quarter mile away. The trolls are taking potshots at fleeing humans. Wordlessly, you guide your group in the opposite direction; returning to the labyrinth of back roads.  

 

You walk for hours, struggling in the heat and sunlight. Dirk surrenders his shades to the kid, whose albinism must make this venture especially painful. You trudge through alleyways, steering from weeping and pleas.

You can’t have more people slowing you down.

When the sun crawls into its noon position, you enter Quinton Square. You rarely came to the residential neighborhood but it’s where most teacher and students of New Post High lived. In the center is Arland Park, the largest park in the Lower South Side. Father Jimenez scouts ahead and once he gives the ‘safe’ signal, your group approaches.

The gates of Arland Park are smashed open. Standing by the hunks of twisted metal that once marked the entry are carapaces with guns. When you come within ten feet, they order you to stop. You hold your hands in the air while two white carapaces approach. The first carapace circles your group, pointing a shotgun at you.

The second points their gun at Dirk. “MP or OA?” they demand.

“MP or OA?” they demand, aiming their gun at Dirk.

“OA?” asks Dirk. 

“Ortiza’s Army.” When you don’t respond, he adds, “The _reason_ for all of this.”

“I didn’t know they had a name.” you say.

“They want everyone knowing their name.” says the carapace, “They been broadcasting all over the radio.”

The carapace lets you into the park but keeps an eye on you.

The park has little space. Every patch of soft grass or shady area has survivors resting in it. Most are in wretched condition—bruised and bloodied, most of them women. The women in the best condition are disguised as men and the worse only in filthy nightgowns.

You ask around for a radio but most survivors only stare, lost in their personal horrors. Your search takes you all over the park, which is untroubled and beautiful in the face of all the death.

The only unsettling sight is at the far end, near the eel pond. Two MP bodies are in the pond, coloring it maroon while the eels make quick work of their flesh. Piled under a kapok tree are eight MP corpses and three women. Two young men are constructing a pyre from dry branches and paper garbage. An old man watches them, clutching a battery-operated radio and twisting the knobs in hope of a signal.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Making a fire.” The old man gestures to the corpses. “Can’t let them rot out near us. Then we’ll _all_ be on our way to see Lord Sufferer and His saints.”

“What happened here?” Dirk asks.

The old man shakes his head. “MP had got this place all cordoned off. Yanked every man, woman, and child outta their homes and herd us here for ‘safety’. Nothing but lies. They wanted us watched while they looted our homes and weren’t a word we could say ‘bout it. So them MP sitting here mighty pretty ‘til OA come.” He frowns. “MP didn’t match OA numbers or firepower. The most cowardly went and offed themselves and the bravest ended up like what these poor sods.”

“How did you survive?” Meenah asks.

The old man shrugs. “Once them OA make their trouble, they up and leave. Them ones with the paint on their faces, they mean but they ain’t after _all_ humans. Only important ones. Some women here, they strip off them fancy jewels and silks and make it like a pauper’s wife so they be left alone.” He sighs. “Don’t always work though. Them OA without the paint...now they the _real_ bastards. Ain’t no reasoning with them folks.”

“So there’s already a ranking system...” Dirk mutters.

You trade the man food for the radio and make camp far from the bodies. Meenah and Father Jimenez entertain the children so they won’t ask about the bodies or the madness of some survivors. Jane and the kid are Dirk and your shadows: saying and doing nothing.

Dirk toys with the radio for five minutes before he gets a signal.

 _//”—have abandoned their posts and would rather toss away their unearned honors and live a coward than a hero.”//_ proclaims the radio, _//”Our people have suffered under their regime. Look at my scars. Hear the pain in my throat inflicted by the unworthy bourgeoisie. Not only have we freed ourselves from their yoke, but we will claim ownership of our country. Ortiza Lives! Never Again! NEVER AGAIN!”//_

The crowd roars behind the voice with the loudest chanting “Let them hang! Let them hang!”. Then there’s a terrified scream, silence, and another cheer.  

Dirk shuts off the radio with trembling fingers.

“Geneva...” He whispers.

“You know the person behind this insanity?” you ask.

Dirk’s eyes are wide. “We have to go.” He looks between the trees and scrubs sweat out of his eyes. “We’re being watched. It’s too organized and when night falls things will...she’s toying with us.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dirk shakes his head, stands, and walks away. The kid runs after him.

“Dirk?” you ask, but the man doesn’t answer. You follow him as he stumbles through the park. “Dirk, talk to me.” When he doesn’t answer, you grab his hand. His skin is hot and the cuts and scrapes are swollen red. “Dirk, _stop_. You’re running a fever.”

“We need a car. We need a car or we won’t make it.” He mutters.

“You need antibiotics.”  

Dirk shakes his head. “I have a good immune system. Fever’ll break.” He wipes more sweat. The kid tugs on his pants and Dirk smiles. He picks up the kid and returns to the others. “We need a car. Where to get one...where...gotta get water first...”

You hope he’s not going to be like this for long. You’re used to being unsettling, traversing the empty wilderness and fighting off any danger.

You can do this, but what about everyone else?

 

Even in the shade, the midday heat is unbearable. You cut Jane and your slacks into shorts and cut the sleeves off of Meenah’s dolor gown. 

After you check your food situation, which is shitty; the food you grabbed wasn’t meant to feed three women, two men, and three children. The supplies may last a day and a half, if you’re lucky.

You decide to work on the situation you can control: preventing infection. You use the bandages and alcohol in the first aid kit to treat everyone’s cuts and scrapes. Not much but it’ll get the job done. After damage control, you have a small lunch.

Then you lead the group from the park into the next neighborhood in direction of the Lower West Side. You cross the street under the spectacle of more hanging victims—men in MP uniforms and women in expensive dresses. Dirk covers the kid’s eyes. Father Jimenez prays. You pretend it’s no different than seeing a dead goat.

You witness a skirmish between the Ortiza’s Army and the MP. The two groups shoot at each other from behind barricades of garbage cans and burnt out cars. Your group sneaks around the battleground and enters Little Nehetaly.

Little Nehetaly is full of crowded buildings and empty streets. Most of them are local tourist traps—clothing stores boasting costly brands, restaurants, fancy hotels modeled after famous Nehetalian historical buildings, and questionable motels hidden in the backstreets. The restaurants and stores are empty and the fancier hotels are fortified with barricades and rooftop lookouts.

Dirk says little. His eyes are to the ground, as if the road is paved with answers.

Searching the restaurants turns up nothing, as looters have already grabbed edible food and sharp cutlery. With sunset approaching, Dirk picks out a clothing store for you to squat in.

For the riots, the store is in good condition. The cash register’s already empty and there are no bodies left behind. The bulky dresses also make for better bedding than cardboard. In the back is an employee’s room with a vending machine, but it’s useless without power. After barricading the doors and checking for dangers, you meet in the back of the store.

“We should consider only moving at night.” suggests Father Jimenez.

“It can be cold at night.” Dirk says.

“The heat is oppressive though. Think of the children…” He looks at the kid. “And this boy...who _is_ he?”

“I found him.” Dirk says.

You look at the kid. He’s too well fed to be a street urchin and his pajamas are made of high quality fabric. You see a golden thread on the wristcuff and point to it. “What’s that?”

Dirk covers the kid’s wrist. “Nothing.” He glances around. “We should change out of these clothes. Get water from the bathroom.”

Meenah’s lips are in a thin, hard line. She must be thinking the same thing you are: why is Dirk going so far to protect the kid? _Who_ is the kid?

“Alright,” you say, “we should wash up.”

The group takes turns using the sink in the employee’s restroom. Hand soap doesn’t erase the smell, but it will make things more bearable. The clothes in the store are of a limited selection--high quality evening, dinner, and sportswear--but nothing for the kids. You change into sports clothes and help Gamzee and Feferi fit into clothes with the help of your scissors.

Jane is the only one who refuses to change.

After changing, you have dinner. Once everyone has eaten, you have to break the news about your food situation.

“All that’s left is a handful of cereal, a bag of plantain chips, and half a box of animal crackers.” you say, “After tomorrow we’ll be out.”

“And we don’t have water either.” Meenah sighs.

“I don’t need to eat.” Father Jimenez offers.

“Everyone eats.” Dirk insists, “If we start cutting meals, we’ll be too weak to get to the boats.”

“There’s no point.” You say, “The food isn’t nutritious. We’re still starving on a small scale.”

“Small scale is tolerable. We won’t be here long.” Dirk says, looking through the window.

“Enough of the mysterious bullshit,” Meenah growls, “What are you stalling for?”

Dirk stares at Meenah and after two minutes of silence says, “A while back, I saw a car exhaust trail on the ground. The biodiesel runoff wasn’t completely dry, so the car couldn’t have gotten too far away. The trail didn’t continue down the road, but swerved somewhere else.”

“What makes you so sure the car isn’t OA?” you ask.

“OA wouldn’t have a reason to hide.” He folds his arms. “The car must be at a motel. A hotel would attract too much attention and those are the only places that have a parking lot, as locals don’t need cars.”

“It could be a trap.” You say, “They’ll expect people to go after a car.”

“I think people’s concerns right now are food and water.” Says Father Jimenez.

“It’s too dangerous for them to move right now.” Dirk runs a finger along his katana, “They’re waiting for night.”

You look at the window and see the sky is violet. Night has to be an hour away. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”

Dirk stands. “The kids and you need rest.” He looks to Meenah. “You’re with me.”

Meenah nods. “I got your back.”

You don’t like being left behind with the kids, but you’re the only one who can use a gun. If trouble comes your way, you’re the first line of defense. When Dirk leaves, the kid huddles in the corner and wraps a coat around him for warmth.

 

When you wake the sky is dark and the noise of the city has returned: screams and gunfire. Meenah is quietly sitting with her children by the window, coddling before waking them. Outside, a distant fire burns.

 

 

You wake up Jane, ignoring the gnawing hunger in your stomach. You silently follow Meenah out of the store and into the city’s darkness. It’s too dangerous for flashlights or words so you rely on hand signals and Meenah’s night vision. OA soldiers patrol the streets and you hate yourself for being glad the less cautious survivors are distracting them. You hide as an OA truck mows down a man and his wife like helpless animals. If there were more food in your stomach, you’d vomit. Feferi is too tired to cry and Gamzee carries her so she won’t be left behind. The boy’s eyes are dry and hollow.

Meenah leads you to an alley whose entrance is crowded with garbage, wood, and sheet metal—part barricade and dumpsite. You climb over a toppled garbage can and broken two-by-fours to see Dirk squatting behind a dumpster. Hidden in the back street is a small, dirty motel. Only one room has a light on and in front of it is a van. Something hangs from the van’s rearview mirror but you can’t tell what.

Due to the expense, you’ve rarely seen them in the city...which makes you wonder who _this_ one belongs to. You want to move in closer, but the door opens.

A fat, balding man pokes his head out. He briefly checks the area (but still not seeing you) and walks out. Behind him is a heavyset woman. With the woman keeping lookout, the man unlocks the van.

You move to attack but then the woman goes back inside. A minute later she brings out a thin girl in a wheelchair. She can’t be older than eleven, with brittle red hair and sunken eyes.

The van’s inside light turns on and you see the white and blue placard hanging from the rearview mirror.

You grab Dirk’s shoulder so he looks at you. You shake your head. You can’t do this. Father Jimenez backs away with his children. Meenah is still, not moving or running away. Jane says nothing.

“It’s our _only_ option.” Dirk whispers.

“We _can’t_...” you whisper, hating your sudden weakness.  

The balding man looks toward you. “W-who’s there?”

Jane moves forward. She grabs Meenah’s handgun, shoving the stunned fuchsiablood aside, and steps out of the shadows. The woman holds up the meat cleaver, but backs away when she sees the gun.

Jane aims her gun at the woman. “Drop it.”

The woman glares at Jane. “Y-you don’t know h-how--”

Jane fires the gun, but the bullet hits the motel wal. The woman screams and covers her ears, dropping the meat cleaver.

The man holds his hands in the air. “P-please don’t do this. My daughter has a heart condition. We can’t--”

“ _Shut the fuck up!”_ Jane yells.

You almost jump out of your skin. You’ve never heard Jane curse; not even when she burned her fingers.

“The keys”--Jane aims at the girl’s head--“or _her_ life.”

“Take it!” The man tosses the keys at Jane’s feet and steps in front of his wife and child. “Just don’t hurt us.”

“Get back inside.” Jane orders.

The couple wheel their daughter back inside and shut the door. Jane picks up the keys and tosses it to Meenah, who catches it with reflexes alone.

“Drive.” She orders.

Everyone is too intimidated to speak. Meenah and Gamzee sit in front, with Dirk behind so he can be lookout. You sit in the back with Jane. As the van leaves, she quietly sobs to herself.

You hold her because it’s the only thing you can do.


	5. a shape like a chokecherry tree

**== >Be Dirk hours later **

Travelling in the van affords you a small measure of tranquility. With Meenah and Gamzee in front, you don’t have to worry about Ortiza’s Army. The lower militia members will be too busy looting and killing to pester you and the higher ups will have bigger goals in mind. The danger now comes from the remaining MP with revenge on their minds. The wider roads carry the risk of barricades, hidden explosives, and spike strips. You’re lucky the route to Seaside Park has been modernized and so you don’t have to fret about its narrowness.

You don’t rest easy, remaining in a crouched position and checking the front windows for trouble. Your legs cramp but you ignore the pain. Your stomach growls but you bite your lip, distracting yourself with pain.

James is quiet, having not spoken a word since he saw the bodies on Main Street. He still remains in his sweaty pajamas as the shop didn’t have anything for toddlers. All you could do was borrow Roxy’s scissors to cut off the wrist cuff monogram. 

You doubt anyone will understand what JSJ stands for, you’d rather not take the risk.

You pat the little man on the head. “Wonder what I should call you.”

“David.” Jane sits next to you, resting on her side and stroking her swollen stomach.

“David?” you ask.

Jane smiles. “He looks like a ‘David’.”

The little man tilts his head, not sure what to make of Jane. Jane only smiles and pats the area next to her. The kid wavers for a minute but then walks over and curls up right next to her.

It must be the first time a human woman has given him affection. Unlike you, Jane’s a natural parent.

You lay on the other side of Jane with the boy between you. You stroke his feathery hair but he doesn’t move; for the first time since the riots began, he’s soundly asleep.

“Seems more like a ‘Dave’ to me.” you whisper.

 

An hour before daylight, Meenah secures the van in an alley. You leave Dave with Jane so you can move quickly without worrying about him. Meenah accompanies you, since living in Trollslum has given her a sixth sense about danger. 

The Lower West Side was constructed with a focus on the fishing and shipping industries. Every block is full of dusty factories with inhospitable conditions. The only patch of green is Seaside Park, which has remained since Leder’s cities were a tangle of ugly fiefdoms.

You explore a fish jerky processing factory but even the tubs of fish entrails have been scoured by foragers. You decide to scope out the area by climbing onto a fire escape.

There are two trucks in front of the gate of Seaside Park. Soldiers encircle them, guarding crates. You’re too far away to tell if they’re OA or MP. Scavenging groups are scattered through the area but remain within the two mile radius of the park gates.

“There hasn’t been a food riot in South City for three years,” you say, “People have had time to build up their emergency stores.”

“If Ortiza’s Army is made of trolls _and_ carapaces, that means they have ex-servants who know where the emergency pantries and the secret victory gardens are.”

That seems likely. “Let’s talk to those scavengers by the park. They’ll definitely know what’s going on.”

“Who’s to say they’re not a trap?”

“Nothing, but if they’re as hungry and hot as we are, it’s not going to be much of a fight. We need to figure out who’s in Seaside Park. If it’s MP, we have a better chance of getting to the boats.”

“And if it’s OA?”

Then you hope they’re in a good mood. Steeling yourself for injury, you descend the hill with Meenah. 

The scavengers you come across are a mix of trolls and humans. Going by clothes and accent, they’re from the border of Brewer Basin and Six Points. Most are occupied digging through garbage or trying to cool themselves in the shade. Another mixed group stand at the gate of Seaside Park, speaking with trolls carrying AK-47s and machetes.

A dirty woman looks at you, bouncing a starved five year old on her lap. “We don’t got nothing worth taking.”

“Neither do we.” You say, “Who’s in the park?”

“Them rioting nugs.” She grunts, “They’s holed up no better than rats with their dry season berries.”

“What do you mean?” Meenah asks.

“They gots food in there.” The scavenger scowls at the gate. “Came Lower West and yanked every can and box they could. You gotta be a nug to get it or with a nug to get it.”

The woman looks like she hasn’t eaten in the past two days and you chalk that up to being too “proud” to ask a nug for help.

“I doubt people like that.”

“Course not!” snorts the woman, “But them that complain get hot lead to eat.”

That would explain why its peaceful. Before you say anything, Meenah strolls over to the gate. You follow at a distance, holding your katana.

Meenah approaches a rustblood whose face is smeared with purple paint in a tribal pattern. They exchange words and the rustblood barks an order. A box of cereal and two cans fly over the gate, lifted by psionics. The rustblood catches it and hands it to Meenah. Meenah nods and runs back to you.

“Well, we got lunch.” She says.

“That was dangerous. There’s no guarantee they wouldn’t attack you.” You say.

Meenah frowns. “All I care about is that my kids are gonna eat.”

She walks ahead of you and tosses a can of corn at the scavenger woman.

“Feed your fucking _kid_!” she yells.

The woman’s too confused to turn her nose up at food.

When you return to the group, Dave has a choppy haircut and Roxy has lopped off her braid.

You pat Dave on the head. “You look like a pair of scissors attacked you, little man.”

Dave doesn’t answer, adjusting your too-large shades on his face.

“He seemed hot with all that hair.” Roxy scratches her head. “Damn, my head’s still itchy. I hope I don’t have lice...”

Father Jimenez sees Meenah and smiles. “You found food too!”

“Not without a high cost.” Meenah sighs.

You share the can of corn between all of you and inform the others about your discovery.

“How could a psionic escape the detectors and surgeries?” Father Jimenez asks.

“There’s a similar tech in Canzia, but its more advanced.” Meenah says, “There may be a glitch in the Leder tech that the Canzia one doesn’t. Or...they found a way to avoid detection.”

It wasn’t an impossible feat. It would take years of training but one could use knives to make false surgical scars and train their body not to react to stimuli, burying the psionics in their subconscious.

A threshecutioner could certainly do it.

“We have other concerns.” You say, “OA is between us and the boats. We need to get in that park.”

“Seaside Park’s gates aren’t very strong.” Jane says, “We could knock it down...but we’d need a heavy duty car. Or a tractor.”

“What about the van?” asks Father Jimenez.

“That’s _crazy_ dangerous.” Roxy says, “There’s no guarantee the van would survive or _we_ would. And what if the boats don’t have fuel?”

“The parade boats have solar sails. Even if they don’t have fuel, they’ll be powered by sunup.” You say, “If they haven’t been used, they may already be charged. We don’t need the engine to run for long. Just need a burst to get us away from the docks.”

“What are our options if the boats are gone?” Jane asks.

The question hangs in the air because you have no idea. The van doesn’t have enough fuel to get you far from South City and that’s not factoring in potential barricades and other road hazards. If OA is smart, they’ve shutdown all routes out of the city.

“We dig in our heels,” says Roxy, breaking the silence, “We’ll become street nomads. No matter what, we’ll survive this.”

“That’s a last resort.” You say, “We wait until dusk. I’ll request to speak with the OA leader. That way if we have to sneak in, we’ll be under the cover of some darkness.”

“Dirk, that’s suicide!” Jane says, “OA shoot humans on sight.”

“Not if you’re with a troll. They’re organized. That means they’re open to negotiations.”

And there’s a high chance you already know most of them.

“Even if nothing comes of it, we need to confirm if the boats are there.” Meenah says.

Father Jimenez smiles. “Lord Sufferer has been on our side so far. Let’s hope He continues to favor us.”

You don’t have the tolerance for religion, but you nod to preacher.

 

At dusk, more people arrive in the Lower West Side, tempted by rations and shelter. You’re a half-mile from the park gates, having moved the van in the shadow of an empty canning factory. The scavengers glance at the van but are too exhausted to challenge you.

Your only hope is the docks.

“If I don’t come back in an hour, you need to take Dave and find safety.” you say to the others.

Jane nods, holding Dave’s hand.

Meenah hands the van keys to Father Jimenez and then looks to you. “Let’s go.”

You leave the van and approach the gate. OA trolls have the gate partially open, guarding food crates with guns. The ration line is steadily getting longer, with people begging or exchanging what they can. With Meenah closely following, you go around the line and approach the coldbloods.

A blueblood with purple face paint points his gun at you. “Get back, ape!”

Meenah and you hold your hands in the air. “I’d like to speak with your leader.” You say.

“Why should we?” growls a purpleblood.

“Please,” Meenah says, “this man is an activist. He’s worked all his life to help us. We’ve seen the MP’s evil firsthand.”

“We wish to join the cause.” You say.

Because if you don’t leave the city, you may be forcibly conscripted.

The trolls mutter amongst each other. Eventually a ceruleanblood approaches the gate, with stolen MP medals pinned on his chest.

“Let him in.” she says, “Bring him to the Mother.” She points to Meenah. “You remain here.”

You nod to Meenah and follow the ceruleanblood into the park. Two heavily armed trolls join you as well.

“I don’t have to tell you the things I can do to your brain if you fuck with us.” The ceruleanblood says.

You nod, keeping your eyes to the ground.

The park is still decorated for the festival. There’s no power but you hear the noise of generators supplying power to the floodlights standing between the trees. OA trolls are spread out, double-checking the shadows and looking for trouble.

You look toward the docks. The parade boats sway in the water, tied to the pier. Three guards stand nearby; two have a machete and one with a firearm. It must be reserved as an emergency escape.

You turn again, moving onto a grassy path. Your stomach tightens when you realize where you’re headed. You enter the copse of kapok trees. In the center is a tall memorial, piled with flowers, manicula, and surrounded by candles. At the top of the shrine is a picture of Ortiza Makara, serenely smiling.

Geneva sits in front of the memorial. She’s exchanged the bulky dress for black pants and combat boots. Her chest is exposed: a flat, devastated roadmap of hideous keloid scars spreading along her shoulders and belly like the branches of a sickly tree.

To her left stands the yellowblood grocer, no longer addled and his eyes crackling with psionics. To the right is his wife--broken teeth, bruised and bloodied. She looks at you with piercing hatred.

You fall to your knees before your captors. Geneva slowly stands, lording over you with the posture of a beloved king over a hated peon.

“W-what have you done?” Your persona slips from you and you feel raw and naked before the jadeblood.

Geneva tilts her head. “What I came here to do.”

“This isn’t what...we...” You still can’t form the words.

Geneva approaches you. She takes the knife out of her belt and the blade tip touches the left side of your throat. You cease your trembling: one wrong move and you’ll cut your throat.

“You once asked me about my loved ones,” she says, “and I never answered you. Now I will. Not very long ago in Leder, there was a jadeblood. She had everything she could ever ask for: beloved quadrants and children. Then, during a food riot, those quadrants were arrested and disappeared from her life forever. The jadeblood then had two choices: to starve or wait until the MP came for her.”

The knife presses in. Hot blood leaks out and you try to pull away, but Geneva knots her fingers in your hair. She holds you still as the knife bites in—not deep enough for you to bleed out but enough to give you wretched pain.

“She refused. She would not let her children starve. She would not let herself be violated. So she smothered her children and mutilated her body. Then she left Leder, lying in the bottom of a stinking boat, swearing never to return.”

It hurts to swallow. The pain is so bad there are tears in your eyes.

“But she did.” You whispers.

Geneva nods and slices your throat again. “And she became a mother again.”  

“You’re insane.” You choke, “This isn’t right...”

“Strider, are you five years old? Do you still think of the world in terms of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’?” She takes the knife away but still holds your hair. “It was always my mission to destroy this wretched establishment. Why do you think _you_ were selected?”

She grins, showing you her pearly white fangs.

“You kept Eric preoccupied as he kept draining the city’s coffers.” she continues, “Honestly, Strider. How much money do you think he embezzled fawning over you? Money that could have gone to refurbishing the roads and social programs…”

She’s just toying with you. Nothing Geneva says is true. The jadeblood is a master manipulator. You have to in order to be in her position.

You clamp your hand over your throat, stifling the blood and ignoring the pain. “You have to let us pass.”

Geneva returns to her seat before the shrine. “You _know_ I can’t do that.”

“We have Meenah and Feferi with us! If trolls are so important to you, let _them_ live!”

Geneva leans back with an impassive look. “Death is inevitable, Strider. Blood for blood. I don’t make the rules.”

“No, but you can change them!”

Geneva doesn’t respond. She gives you a look like you’re an ignorant child throwing a tantrum over the color of the sky.

“We should string him up.” says the rustblood.

“It’ll be a shame,” sighs the yellowblood, “He’s one of the _good_ ones.”

“Throw him to the other apes.” suggests the blueblood, “The first to kill him will get an extra ration. He’ll be dead in a minute.”

“No,” Geneva says, “he came to us in good faith. Let him return to his ‘woman’. They’ll come back eventually and then”--she smiles--“we’ll see.”

The followers aren’t pleased, but don’t challenge Geneva. They return you to the front of the park and toss you into the dirt. The people in the line pretend not to see you.

Meenah looks at your neck with concern but doesn’t say a word. You return to the van and find the others are no longer alone. Roxy is trading with other wanderers. They’re not as ragged as the group in Arland Park, but just as fearful; mostly humans and warmblood trolls and no one is over the age of thirty.   

You take Roxy, Jane, and Meenah aside, as Father Jimenez is consoling and absolving.

“The boats are in the harbor, but they’re under guard.” you say, “Three guards. Not too big but our biggest hurdle is getting _into_ the park. A lot of people are patrolling the area and there’s only one definitive entrance.”

“So it’s over.” Meenah says, “We’re not in any condition to fight those guys.”

“We could use a distraction,” Roxy murmurs, “If we had fireworks...we could rush the gates...”

 

 

The chances are too high that you would injure yourselves creating said distraction. The run to the harbor isn’t long, but there are a lot of hazards along the way. “It would have to be a big distraction to give us enough time.”

“What about the van?”

You turn and see the preacher standing behind you. He strokes his manicula with an unsettled look in his eyes.

“I’ve been speaking with the survivors,” Father Jimenez says, “They have fireworks and guns. We can provide a distraction.”

You look over the preacher’s shoulder at the survivors: starving men lacking families and having nothing else to lose.

“No way!” Meenah says, “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? You don’t even know how to use a gun, Lawrence!”

“I know how to drive.” Father Jimenez says. Meenah shakes her head and he touches her face. “You’ve protected me all this time. Now let me protect you.”

“You better come.” She whispers, “I won’t leave without you.”

The preacher’s eyes flicker with something rare in a religious man: doubt. He kisses Meenah and goes to Feferi and Gamzee. You don’t hear what he says, but you assume they’re tender and not something you’ll ever get to share with anyone.

Father Jimenez gestures to the group of aimless men. They pile into the van with Father Jimenez in the front seat. Through the tinted glass, you see the fear on his face, quickly followed by the exhilaration of giving his family a chance.

Then the van charges the gate of Seaside Park. Two men fire their shotguns out the windows, hitting the guards in front. The van barrels through the gate, smashing food crates. Flames sprout from the front and men fling themselves out, dodging gunfire.

You don’t have time to admire their bold sacrifice. You grab Meenah—who is frozen and mute in shock—and pull her along. Roxy picks up Dave and clutches Jane’s hand. Gamzee carries Feferi, running on his long legs.

Like everywhere else in South City, the park quickly becomes a warzone. You can’t keep track of who is shooting at who as you run to the boats. You sink your katana into the gut of a harbor guard. Roxy shoots the others. The crowd overwhelms the third as they run toward the three boats. Ortiza’s Army must not have expected you to head toward the food, not a near hopeless escape.

You chop the ropes tying the boat to the harbor. Roxy gets in first, still cradling Dave. You help Jane get in as its too risky for her to jump. Gamzee jumps in after, holding Feferi.

Meenah stands alone on the dock, looking at the paths twisting between the thin trees and depowered rides.

“Meenah, there’s no time!” you say.

The fuchsiablood turns away. Tears run down her face, but she gets in the boat. You shove people aside with Roxy and Meenah’s help and enter the control shelter. Meenah blocks the entrance and Roxy stands next to you.  

“Do you know how to operate this?” Roxy asks.

“It’s a parade boat. A monkey could drive it.” You say.

There’s no key switch for the boat so you don’t have to risk hotwiring. You yank the throttle lever, push several buttons, and grip the steering. The boat sputters to life, pushing through the water. It would move faster, but it was made to carry ten costumed celebrants—not thirty terrorized survivors. You look through the shelter window and see one boat is taking off but the second is stalling. Its sides warp as more people pile on.

You turn away before it capsizes.  You gun the engine harder, moving faster from the pier. You barely avoid the people leaping toward your boat, splashing into the water. Others risk floating to Canzia on planks of wood and luck alone. The less brave remain on the dock, holding up their children and weeping for a miracle. 

The boat quickly builds up speed and you set it on cruise control. You push through the crowd, ignoring the ones that try to grab you or plead for you to turn the boat around or save the ones in the water.

You go to the back of the boat where telescopes are welded onto the side. Jane looks through one and you look through the other.

Ortiza’s Army has lined up their attackers along the pier in a kneeling row. Geneva walks down the line of victims, shooting them in the back of the head. The last victim is Father Jimenez and Geneva treats him no differently. A second later, his body slumps forward and falls into the water. Then Geneva’s army leaves the dock. 

“They’re...just letting us go?” Jane whispers.

“No,” you say, leaving the telescope, “it’s an exchange.”

Someone has to tell the world what happened.

The harbor shrinks and Leder becomes minuscule.

You must keep going west. You must keep the boat afloat. That’s your only concern. Nothing troubles you. Not the pain in your legs or face; not the intense humidity of the night or the chill of the oceanic winds. Not the lack of food, water, or toilets. Not the exposure to the elements on the parade boat. You just keep the compass pointed west.

West is Canzia. West is hope.


	6. go west, young man

Your memories enter a fog. You briefly recall a light shining in your eyes and then a jumble of language—maybe Leder Spanish, Trussian, or some garbage dialect your feverish brain is trying to piece together. You sleep like the dead and wake up on a cot. Dull linen walls surround you on all four sides. Everything hurts, from the top of your head to your toes. Voices echo around you outside the tent. You try to speak but all you can do is cough and hack, flinching at your burning throat.

A Red Crux nurse enters the tent and smiles at you.  “Oh good! You’re awake.”  

English. She’s speaking English. You try to talk but your throat is too dry. There’s no one else in the tent. Where are the others? Did they make it?

“Shh. It’s okay now. You’re safe.” The nurse feels your forehead. “And your fever’s finally broken.”

Your response is a cough. The nurse leaves and returns with a small cup of water. You slurp it down, letting the liquid soothe your burning throat.

“Where am I...?” You cough.

“New Jack City. We set up a temporary camp for you and the other refugees in our civic center.” The nurse says, “You were in a terrible state when you arrived: severe dehydration, infection, malnutrition, mental exhaustion...”

“Where’s Dave...?” you whisper.

“You mean your brother? He’s with the other children. Right now, you should concentrate on resting.”

You don’t have the energy to nod. You spend the next hours slipping in and out of consciousness. A doctor speaks to you but they never get a reply. You feel an IV enter your arm and a nurse say they’re giving you nutrients and painkillers. Another nurse marvels at you being alive.

The next time you regain consciousness, Roxy is in the tent. She’s resting on a cot, thumbing through an English-to-Spanish dictionary by electric lamplight. She’s wearing the ugly colonist suit that the Red Crux gives to everyone.

When Roxy sees you’re awake, she smiles.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Roxy says. You nod slowly and look at the lamp. “They’re not set up for us. The Red Crux is moving us into hotels within a few days.” She smiles, “At least there won’t be a long trek to the bathroom and a real shower.”

“How long have I been out?” you cough.

“About three days.” Roxy says, “You were doing fine until the Coast Guard caught us. Then you started speaking gibberish and passed out.” She squints at your blank face. “You seriously don’t remember anything? Not even the bay?”

You shake your head. Did you speak to the Coast Guard in Alternian? Why? There’s a slim chance of your associates being in the Coast Guard and an even slimmer chance they would pick _your_ boat. You scour your memory but everything is in a haze of shock and exhaustion. “Where did we land?”

“I don’t know exactly where.” Roxy shrugs. “It was a bay with some benches and stores from what I could tell. They took pictures of us and kept us there since there were too many of us to be easily moved to the detention center in Dadlas. We were lucky the Red Crux came. We waited for so long that most of us fell asleep. I think Jane and Meenah were the only ones still awake when they came.”

You don’t remember that either. “While we were here...did anyone ask for me?”

“I don’t think so...” Roxy sighs. “There’s a lot going on. Everyone’s scattered. Jane and Meenah are at the hospital.”

“A-are they alright?”

“Well, yes and no. Meenah stopped talking and eating. Jane’s holding on for the baby.” Roxy smiles but its thin, still tense with sadness. “It’s a boy, by the way. She’s going to name him John.”

Oh gods. _Johnny_. You can still see his corpse on the bakery floor. Your actions murdered Johnny and stranded innocent people in a foreign country. 

You would vomit if there was anything in your stomach.

“I-it’s my fault...” you whisper.

“This isn’t the time to play the blame game.”

“But--”

“Dirk, look.”

Roxy points to your feet. Dave is sleeping at the end of your cot in clean pajamas, clutching your shades. Your muscles ache as you pick up Dave and hold him close.

“It’s alright, little man,” you whisper, “I got you.”

 

You spend the next two days healing and building your strength back up. Your weakness makes you a fall risk so you’re dependent on a cane. Dave follows you everywhere, holding your hand, and panicking when you leave his sight. He refuses to speak in front of anyone and even when you cajole him, he won’t say more than two words. The only people he doesn’t mind staying with are Roxy and Jane but he won’t speak to them.  

“If it wasn’t for your friends, we wouldn’t know who he was.” The Red Crux nurse says, “He wouldn’t let the doctor near him.”

Your confusion about this lasts until you meet the doctor, who is a large troll and you understand what happened: the only trolls he’s been around previous to Feferi, Gamzee, and Meenah were timid servants. Everyone else wanted his head.

“I’m sure this is temporary.” You lie.

There’s no way in hell you can tell them about Dave’s identity. Even before the riots, people had lost family and friends to the MP’s terror.

You promised to keep him safe. From now on, he’s a Strider.  

 

A day later, you meet with a superior. Agents bring you to a private box on fiftieth floor. Vantas Sr. sits in a comfortable chair in front of a large window. You limp into the chair next to him. The window shows the arena floor crowded with tents and sleeping bags. Late-arriving survivors are funneled in but remain amongst the stadium seats while more tents are being erected.  

“This morning some debris and body parts washed up on one of the beaches near the Ninth Ward,” says Vantas Sr., “The Coast Guard thinks it’s the remain of a boat.”

You swallow. “While we were escaping, one of the boats capsized.”

Vantas Sr. nods. “You’re wondering why I’m speaking to you instead of a subordinate.” He blinks. “I wanted to thank you for helping my daughters and my...” he pauses. “...grandson.” 

You can tell from the pause that he has yet to accept his grandson or his paternity. You doubt he ever will.

“Geneva went rogue.” You look at the troll and feel so much smaller. “Was that always the plan? For Leder to destabilize?”

It’s bold of you to ask so blatantly, but you’re too tired for games.

Vantas Sr. looks at you. His eyes burn bright against his dark skin “Destabilization? No. It was to be a...controlled burn.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “What do you mean, sir?”

Vantas Sr. blinks. His face gives away nothing—not surprise, not pity, and not dismay at your words.

“Forests of a certain age will develop a problem of old matter preventing new growth.” He leans on his armrest, eyes still burning into you. “It becomes necessary to burn the dead matter so that new growth and life may occur.” He flexes his claws, pondering his words. “Leder sits on a wellspring of mineral resources but its economy is choked by its government’s bigoted policies. Most of its population—human and non-human alike--live below the poverty line while higher-ups consume the most. With the constant food and supply shortages, it was headed toward a much bigger disaster that would have brought down not just the economies of Leder but also Raffil and Lew.”

“So who really paid for us to go to Leder?”

Vantas Sr. shrugs. “No one you would be surprised by. The UTC has the most controlling interest followed by Raffil. With a rebellion underway, they could move into Leder and inspect the resource situation all while ‘liberating’ the oppressed people. There’ll be resistance, of course, but they’ll come to a peaceful agreement with the moderate rebels led by Geneva. Then the armies will kill off the extremists, or let them consume each other. Hopefully, that will give Geneva enough leeway to leave and assume another identity.”  

“And why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“It would have complicated things. Your purpose was to deal with the human aspect of Leder. Geneva was to handle the trolls.” Vantas Sr. slowly exhales. “The original plan was to remove Meenah, Feferi, and you from the situation according to our original timeline, the uprising had another three years to go. However, the recent economic downswing along with the death of Ortiza Makara caused the situation to deteriorate at an extraordinary rate. All Geneva could do was maintain the out of control blaze.”

“You trust her that much? Over _me_?”

The mutantblood folds his claws. “The blunt truth is that she is a troll and you aren’t.”

“How...” You stand, still leaning on your cane, “...how can you be so damn _calm_ about this?”

Vantas Sr. stares at you with bright red eyes like a well nourished flame. Then he slowly stands.

“Please forgive me, Strider.” he says, voice still even. “I’m very livid and mournful about the loss of life and my part in it, but trolls of my generation and upbringing rarely express things the way the current generation does. Or if we do, it leads to”—his eyes narrow—“problems.”

You know his true reasons for not emoting: because he would rage until everything was fire and his enemies were ash. For years he raged and that was why Kankri was a broken mess and Meenah a runaway, now widow.

“You did what you could.” you say, “I think I have...combat fatigue. I need a sabbatical.”

The mutantblood looks at you with the thousand-year-old eyes.

“Don’t we all?” he whispers.

 

After that meeting, you don’t speak to anyone. You sit in the stadium nosebleed seats, watching the Red Crux workers move among a sea of white tents. This high up the stale stench coming from the unwashed survivors and those suffering from infection and gangrene thins out.

Eventually Roxy walks over to you, holding Dave’s hand. “Hey.”

You nod to her. “Hey.”

Dave runs over and climbs into your lap. Roxy sits next to you. “So, you really don’t remember anything at the docks?”

You shake your head. “Not a thing.”

Roxy nods. “Alright.” She pauses, “After all of this is over and it’s settled...I want a divorce.”

You should ask her what this is all about, but you’re not an idiot. Anyone with eyes could tell that Roxy and you don’t belong together and in the UTC, she can strut around independently. Even in the conservative East, no one will bat an eyelash at a divorced woman. Maybe she can support Jane better than you ever could.

And no one will judge you for not being married. News that should be heartbreaking makes you smile for the first time in days.

“Good idea.” You say. 


	7. a starting photo

**== >Past Dirk: Be Past Roxy a few days later **

The Red Crux is stretched thin. You don’t speak a word of English so they give you a strange device called an iHusk that will work as your translator. The only thing they can provide you with is a bus that takes you to the hospital with other refugees. Then you’re on your own.

Hospitals make you anxious. The last time you were in one, you were dying from the flu and afraid that you’d go the same way your mother did. The Canzian hospital is difficult to navigate: the signs are all in English and there are thousands of rooms. There are also trolls; trolls _everywhere_. There weren’t even that many trolls back in your hometown!

The biggest shock is that Jane’s doctor is a troll. You had troll doctors in your hometown, but they only dealt with other non-humans.

“Are you sure you are Miss Egbert’s doctor?” you ask, via translator. “She’s human.”

The troll stares before smiling politely. “I’m very qualified. I have the student loans to prove it.” If she’s made a joke, you don’t understand it. The troll sighs, “Let me take you to her.”

Jane’s room is much more technical and smaller than the hospitals back home. You still remember the cavernous room filled with thirty other patients. There’s also a TV in the room and a wall showing a digital display of Jane’s heart rate and blood pressure. Jane is sitting up in bed, flipping through the TV channels. The doctor checks her vitals and then leaves.

“What’s it like?” you ask.

“It’s more comfortable than going to the midwife, I have to say.” Jane looks at the iHusk. “What’s that?”

“They say it’s an iHusk.” You hold it up. “It’s like a tiny computer monitor but you don’t need a stylus. Look.” You repeat the motions the Red Crux worker showed you, switching to the photo album and showing her the pictures. “They put pictures in it so I can point to them and show them what we all look like.”

Jane tilts her head. “Is that the dock? I was so tired I hardly remember...”

You nod. “The Coast Guard took pictures of us cause they needed a way to identify us. At least they took some initiative. The Red Crux still doesn’t know what to do with a bunch of refugees.”

Jane smiles sadly. “The nurses here don’t know either. They don’t know Leder Spanish, only Mehican, so they have a machine translate for me. I don’t know if the translation is correct or not. They’re looking for interpreters but...” She frowns. “And they gave me a _troll_ doctor. How could a troll know a human woman’s body?”

“I know! It’s so backwards!” You sigh. “I guess that’s how Canzians do it.”

Jane looks at the iHusk and sighs. “I lost so many pictures...so many things.” She touches her stomach. “All I have left is a single picture...”

A tear runs down her face and you wipe it away. “We can make another one. We’ll start with the pictures the coast guard took and start to fill up another album. We’ll sign it and let people know its ours. We can start again.” You smiles. “And we have our memories of the good times.”

“Is it worth it though?” Jane whispers, “I keep seeing Johnny on the floor with his head cracked open like a bad melon...” She rubs at her eyes. “A brave man like him shouldn’t have died that way. He shouldn’t have had his head caved in, killed like a sick animal...”

You hold her. No matter what happens, you’re _always_ going to protect Jane.


	8. epilogue: our history written in her blood

**== >Past Roxy: Be Present Dave **

A loud wail from the baby monitor shakes you from your dreams. Jade mutters and attempts to get out of bed, but you tell her to go back to sleep. You climb over Karkat, who is always dead sleep after taking the sopor pills. Your head is foggy as you stumble to the baby room.

Nessie is wriggling in her crib.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask, picking her up. “You have a bad dream like Dad?”

Apparently your infant daughter isn’t in the mood for jokes because she keeps crying. You sit in the rocking chair, soothing her until the crying subsists.

“How in the hell am I going to tell you this?” you mutter, “You’ll have _enough_ problems growing up…”

Nessie hiccups and finally spits up on your shirt. Maybe a week ago you would be severely grossed out but now you just sigh and wipe her up.

“At least you’re healthy,” you whisper, “at least you’re _alive_.”

Your mutant daughter stares at you. She can’t understand the gravity of her appearance; not when her mind is still grasping high concept ideas like shapes and words. You put her back in the cradle so you can change your shirt, but when you return she’s fast asleep. You decide to open the blinds and finish up your homework in the armchair.  

The sky is steadily turning bluer. It’s shaping up to be a lovely day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that wanted to hear the song at the opera: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-ZnqhXSzjw


End file.
